Broken
by Athenaeum
Summary: Six months after defeating the Red Death, Hiccup feels there are still many problems between Vikings and dragons as well as many unanswered questions. Some answers will bring far bigger problems.
1. The New World

Broken

Chapter 1: The new world

It was actually warm out, considering the time of year. Between spending all afternoon over his new forge and the lengthening spring days, he'd warmed up enough to hang his brown fur vest on a nail and work only in his habitual green tunic and trousers.

He held a short metal rod up to the sun's westerly light and examined it. It was as pure as promised, at least to his apprentice's eye. If there were any impurities within, they were either tiny or hidden from sight. He'd have to be careful. He had more than a few small scars on his arms and chest from heated metal popping and throwing sparks. The worst one he'd gotten was the first one, along the right side of his chin. It was the reward he'd earned for stupidly sticking his head too close to his teacher's forge. He'd been told it was the best kind of lesson; one that didn't kill him but left him a reminder he couldn't forget. In his short life there had been far too many such lessons.

At least he had learned. The forge he stood before was proof of that. He'd designed it himself but had asked his teacher to construct it for him. The older man had shaken his head and called his project 'a waste of time', but had gone along with his request.

This forge was unlike anything the village had ever seen. To be honest, they'd only seen one and it belonged to the blacksmith, his teacher. That didn't stop everyone from expressing puzzlement and doubt about its worth.

Even so, it had been built and placed beside his house in the small shed constructed to protect it. He looked around at the cramped and sparsely filled smithy that was now his own. Soon enough, he thought, I'll get them turned around. They'll see.

He placed the rod within the forge, which was entirely cold. He stepped back and looked behind him. There, lying in grass that had been hidden by snow only two weeks before was his companion. Large yellowish green eyes watched him patiently.

"Alright, buddy. Let's give it another try."

His friend's powerful form shifted and moved closer, peering into the small enclosed space of the new forge. The sleek, wide head turned to regard him. He laid a hand on the rounded shoulder and smiled. "Just like last time, slow and steady until it's really red, OK?" His companion gave a single nod.

Putting on a leather apron and grabbing his hammer and tongs, he moved several steps away, getting behind his friend's considerable girth. This wasn't just to protect his hide. It was also to protect his eyes. He'd learned the hard way that it was a bad idea to stare directly at the intense blue flames.

Toothless' flat black head dipped over the opening in Hiccup's special forge. He eyed the piece of metal that lay within, gauging how hard to blow. A slight hiss drifted up from his throat and a faint fog built at the back of his open mouth. He instinctively channeled the blue flame over the desired spot. It took very little effort on his part to bring the metal rod to a brilliant red glow.

With practiced steps, Toothless moved aside and Hiccup stepped forward. He flinched at the heat that bathed his face, feeling his cheeks tighten and his lips get hot. Before he did anything, he eyed the pattern of scorch marks inside his brand new forge. As he had hoped, his dragon's fiery breath had rolled over the center of the forge, curled up the curved back of the enclosed space and been directed back down to the center by the special angled deflector he'd designed into the top. The metal had been hit by the flames not once, but twice. It was nicely efficient and got the metal hotter faster.

With a grin that pulled at his parching lips, Hiccup grabbed the rod with his tongs and moved it to his small anvil. Tiny sparks flew from the glowing metal. The first stroke of his hammer sent many more flying across the sanded floor.

As he worked, Hiccup felt a sense of peace that was all too rare. Work the metal, put it in the forge for Toothless to reheat, then work it some more. The rhythm of the work was soothing and helped clear his mind. His dragon seemed to enjoy the activity as well, and the two friends soon had a new, experimental knife blade for their effort.

Hiccup quenched the small blade and laid it on the anvil. He looked it over carefully, trying to see if using dragon fire to heat the metal had made any visible difference to it. He scrutinized it thoroughly but could not see anything unusual about the blade's appearance. The fact that the sun was setting didn't help. There might be some subtle difference that the weak light wouldn't let him see.

Just as he decided to call it a day, a shadow passed over him as something crossed between the forge and the reddish orange sunset. He looked up to see Jaspin astride his Nadder, Bitequick. They were obviously coming down to land.

Hiccup suppressed a sigh of disappointment. He'd hoped to be left alone for the evening to do his work. It wasn't as if there weren't enough new and interesting things to do in Berk now. But since he was considered the first dragon rider he was also considered the primary dragon trainer, and anyone who needed help in that area inevitably wound up coming to him.

As Bitequick landed, Jaspin called out, "Hiccup! There you are! What are you doing? Are you making something for Toothless?" He jumped off his dragon's back and practically ran up to the forge. At 14 years old, he was the youngest rider in the village. His energy and enthusiasm was thankfully balanced with a surprising amount of patience when it came to dealing with Bitequick. Otherwise he would have been utterly unsuited for riding.

With his usual wide eyed, curious expression, Jaspin stuck his head into the opening of Hiccup's new forge. "Wow," he exclaimed, his voice distorted by the enclosed brick space. "It smells like dragon breath in here." He pulled his head out and noticed the unfinished knife on Hiccup's anvil. Without a thought as to the possibility it might be hot, he picked it up and looked it over. "Did you make this? How come you don't have any coals in your forge? Are you gonna start making swords soon?"

"Hi, Jaspin. How are you and Nailbiter doing today?"

The unfinished knife dropped to the anvil with a dull ring as a scowl of disapproval flashed across the young man's face. He glared at Hiccup a moment before noticing the sly smile that one was wearing. His offense at the remark vanished as quickly as it had come. "Oh, we're doing just great, Twigs."

Hiccup grinned at the use of his childhood nickname. It was a small price to pay to get Jaspin to calm down and perhaps get to the point of his visit. He picked up the half finished knife and put it on his workbench, along with his hammer and his leather apron. Despite Jaspin's curiosity about his work, he wasn't willing to share the ideas he had about his experimental metal smithing just yet. He wanted to know if it was worth offering to his teacher and he had a lot of work to do before he reached that point.

"Does she like the new saddle padding I made? It should chafe a lot less."

Jaspin nodded. "Oh yeah, she likes it a lot. I don't have to bribe her with extra fish to get her to stand still anymore." The younger male turned his eyes toward his colorful yet spiky companion.

Bitequick had settled next to Toothless, and the two were rumbling and purring to each other. Their riders watched them for a moment. Hiccup paid close attention to the two dragons, watching their eyes, their calm demeanor. He felt another idea tickling the back of his mind. That idea was momentarily overcome by surprise as the two dragons suddenly stopped making noise and turned as one to regard their riders. He still had trouble reading the expression on Nadder's faces, but Toothless was once again giving him a look that he'd have sworn was quiet expectation. It was as if his companion was waiting for him to realize something that was painfully obvious.

"Oh, I was gonna ask you if you were coming to the launching tomorrow. Ingifast said you and Toothless should be there."

Hiccup winced slightly as a whole host of uncomfortable feelings washed over him. Some had to do with his father, some to do with the villagers of Berk, and some to do with the dragons that now inhabited the Viking's island.

Normally launching a new ship meant the village could do more fishing, more exploring. It was usually a time to celebrate the village's ability to conquer the hardships of life by creating something that would make life easier. Since most of their ships now lay as charred timbers on the shores of Red Death Island, the launching of the first new ship built since that battle meant they were one step further away from starving.

"I don't know," he hedged. "I was hoping to do some exploring with Toothless. We haven't been able to ride for months and we both miss it." The winter weather had proven too cold and rainy for riding dragons. While Vikings were hearty folk who scoffed at weakness, they found that moving at the speed of a flying dragon in the cold air would quickly freeze a rider's flesh. The dragons themselves didn't seem to mind, apparently as impervious to the cold as they were to heat.

"Ah, you can do that anytime," Jaspin said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You don't want to miss the launch of this ship. It's going to be special!"

Hiccup was surprised at the excitement in Jaspin's voice. The kid was certainly excitable but he doubted the launching of a new ship would really get him worked up. "Special?" He scoffed lightly at the idea. "Why would it be special?"

"But...but this is the first ship since..." The boy's eyes widened as he mentioned what he'd not witnessed firsthand but had heard related many times over winter cooking fires. "...since the battle."

'The battle.' That was all anyone called it now. It was almost as if there had never been a battle of any kind before it and could never be another like it. Truthfully, there really hadn't been a battle like it, but Viking lore was filled with countless battles where mighty Norse warriors had taken on foes without consideration of their size or strength. 'The battle,' as Jaspin and everyone else called it, had certainly been a different kind of fight than anyone had ever seen, against a dragon unlike anything they had ever seen. But it was still just a fight. A costly one, at that.

Once again the tide of emotions rolled over Hiccup, leaving him with a slight frown on his face and a faint throb below his left knee. So much had changed that day.

"Besides," Jaspin added anxiously, "you _have_ to come."

The stress in the kid's voice jarred Hiccup and got him wondering. "Oh?" he muttered as he took his furred vest from its nail and slid it on. "Why's that?"

Jaspin's mouth opened and shut a few times as he struggled with what he wanted to say. Finally he ended his imitation of an Icelandic Cod with, "It's a secret!"

That certainly caught Hiccup's attention. He turned to his young friend, intending to ask what could be a secret about something the whole village knew. Before he could utter a word, he heard a now familiar sound coming from outside. It was a deep throated retching sound that ended in a wet splat. More curious about what was happening outside, he stepped around Jaspin to gaze at the two dragons sitting nearby.

All he saw was the tail fin of a real Icelandic Cod as it disappeared down Toothless' wide gullet. The Night Fury licked his lips and purred to Bitequick. The Nadder was shaking her head slightly, a thin line of drool hanging from her mouth.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen it happen. Except that he hadn't actually _seen_ it happen. He never did. It was as if the dragons were trying not to be obvious about it. But Hiccup was more and more convinced the other dragons in Berk were bringing fish to Toothless.

This was yet another puzzling thing he'd learned over the winter months. If he'd had half as many answers as he had questions, he felt sure he'd be as smart as the Freygerd, the village elder.

Pushing aside the newest distraction, Hiccup turned back to his friend. "So, what's this about a secret, huh?"

* * *

At first Hiccup was surprised to find Stoick at home when he arrived. His father had been out with the fishing crews, looking for better places to drop their nets. Then he realized the village leader would naturally be at the launching of the newest ship in Berk's tiny fleet.

He wondered how long his father would stay. His time at home never seemed to last more than a few days anymore. Of course it was expected that the best fishermen and hunters would all be out trying to find food. With only a few ships remaining after 'the battle' it was much harder to gather enough fish and other game to feed everyone.

Hiccup suspected, however, that Stoick was trying to stay away from the village as much as he was trying to feed it.

The apprentice blacksmith held the door of his home open for his dragon, but Toothless simply walked off into the thickening darkness. He looked inside to the large figure beside the central hearth. Stoick was stirring something in a pot that swung gently over the fire. He sighed, glancing once more at the retreating form of the Night Fury. He could only make out the bright red shape of his friend's artificial tail fin in the gloom, and that only for a moment before it was gone as well. He went inside and pushed the door closed behind him.

Even in the warmth of their house, with its space filled with rich red light from the fire, the problems that weighed on Hiccup's mind crowded him. It didn't help that the air was undeniably marked with the faint scent of dragon hide, a smell he could only describe as dusty blood. Even the wild onions and pepper Stoick had liberally added to the stewpot couldn't mask the new odor that permeated their home. Hiccup had gotten used to it months ago, but he had to believe his father would consider it a constant reminder of the shape of the new world in which they lived.

Stoick's glanced briefly at his son's entrance. "Hiccup. Just in time."

"Hey dad," he answered. He sniffed deeply as he moved to the other side of the fire. "Smells good."

"We had a good catch. More salmon in the nets than I've seen in a long time." He picked up a wooden bowl and raised the ladle from the pot.

"Wow, that's great." Hiccup took the bowl his father offered him, drew in another deep breath from the steam rising off the stew. "Fresh salmon always smells so good."

"And no tooth marks on them, either."

Wincing, the younger man picked up his spoon, the first thing he'd ever made for himself in Gobber's forge. He sat down and occupied himself with his meal, trying to think of something to say. The only obvious thing that came to him was the fish he was currently eating.

"How far out did you have to go this time?"

"Ten days south. Skirted a storm coming in but made it back without trouble."

Hiccup stared at his father, trying to figure out what was going on inside his head. He wasn't quite as pensive as usual but there was no denying there was tension on his face, in his voice.

Of course he knew that things were hard for his father now. The man was living in a world he didn't see as his own, despite the fact that everything in it was practically the same as it had been six months ago. And he wasn't the only one. Most of the village seemed to have developed the same quiet moodiness his father displayed. Hiccup felt certain he understood where a lot of the problems were coming from, but he was at a complete loss as to how to solve them.

Suddenly he remembered Jaspin and his secret.

He ate a few more spoonfuls of the thick stew before he could figure out how to bring up the subject. Talking to his father was never the easiest thing, but now it seemed even harder. Hiccup's new status in the village and in their house was once something for which he would have literally killed dragons. Now, with all that had happened and the way things had gone, he felt just as trapped and confused as he imagined his father did.

"Have you seen the new hull Ingifast is putting in the water tomorrow? Jaspin was telling me about it."

Stoick nodded. "Aye. Saw it as we came in."

When nothing else was said, Hiccup was forced to ask bluntly, "Did you hear what he wants to call it?"

Stoick's wooden spoon stopped halfway to his lips. He stared blankly into the fire a moment before answering. "Aye. I did."

"Does it..." He laid his own spoon into his half-empty bowl, certain he'd not be using it for a while. "...do you think it's a... a good idea?"

With a soft sigh, his father let the spoon fall back into his bowl. "Ingifast is the shipwright. He has the right to name the ships he builds as he pleases."

"But, do... do you think it's really a good idea to name a ship..." Hiccup set his bowl in his lap. "I mean, most of the people aren't going to like having another tradition taken away from them. It's just-"

"He asked me."

Hiccup froze, surprised by what that implied.

"He asked Freygerd, too. We both agreed." Still his eyes stayed locked on the writhing flames before him. "It's a fine name for a ship. Strong and proud."

That's it then, he realized. The first new ship built since 'the battle' was going to be named 'The Night Fury'.

Thunder rumbled softly. The storm that had chased the fleet home had arrived.

* * *

Grey skies and soft ground were all that was left of the storm by the next afternoon. As Hiccup watched from a distance, a few dozen villagers and dragons made their way off the stony beach and toward Berk itself. The rest of his dragon training class and their scaled companions were all there, of course. A tiny handful of other, mostly younger folks from the tribe had come, including Jaspin. There were, in fact, more dragons in attendance than people. Yet there had been enough present to push the mostly completed wooden hull of 'The Night Fury' from its timber cradle into the water. The effort provided by the dragons made up for the scarcity of villagers.

Hiccup was getting tired of feeling conflicted so often. While Ingifast had done Toothless and him a real honor by naming the new ship as he had, he was still worried. He'd just watched a ship named after a dragon being launched by both villagers and dragons. Six months ago he would have seen it as amazing progress. One year ago he would have considered it unthinkable and unnatural. But the fact that the last launching, a year ago, had been attended by nearly every person in Berk made what had happened this cold spring afternoon seem strange and unrecognizable. Even the presence of his father, making the traditional sacrifices of food and mead to protect the new ship, seemed wrong, out of shape. And it wasn't just the presence of creatures they'd once considered deadly pests.

He hadn't been able to take it. The launching ceremony wasn't terribly long, but as soon as he felt he could he'd mounted Toothless and left. He hadn't gone far, only over the first ridge. There he'd landed and watched as the rest finished up and eventually left. Once they'd gone, he sat on a convenient boulder and reflected on his concerns.

He wondered how his father handled the immense burden of responsibility. The decisions Stoick made were always meant to be for the betterment of the tribe as a whole. But when a decision of his didn't work out well, it was understood that he still had the whole village's interests at heart. The decisions Hiccup had made which ultimately led to the end of fighting between Vikings and dragons had been made, he knew, in ignorance. He'd only done what he thought was best at the time for himself and later for his friend Toothless.

He'd never meant for so many things to change so much, only the things he felt were important. But those things had turned out to be at the root of everyday life in Berk. Only a few people in the village hadn't been directly affected by the things Hiccup had done. And even they were left as his father was, as he was; living in a new world they didn't recognize or fully understand. It wasn't that his tribe didn't appreciate an end to the war that they had been fighting for so long. His friend Fishlegs had told him only a week ago that he thought of him as a hero because he'd fixed the biggest problem between dragons and Vikings. It seemed to him, however, that things were just as broken as they'd always been.

For Hiccup, the worst part was the questions. He had so many questions filling his head now he sometimes thought he would go crazy. It made him long for the feeling he'd had before he'd met Toothless, when he felt sure all the knowledge he needed to live his life could be gotten by laying his hands on metal and wood and leather. If he could touch it, he could understand it.

Now he often felt like he didn't understand any more than his father did. Stoick at least had the excuse of having lived his life completely at odds with dragons, hating their very existence. His old way of thinking had been good enough to let him lead the village, to help him understand the world and all that was in it. Changing from that to the new way of things would be hard for any self-respecting Viking.

Without thinking, Hiccup laid his hand on Toothless' neck, just behind the frill. He gently rubbed the dark, pebbly skin. A soft purring growl filled his ears as his companion responded to his touch.

A sudden flash of guilt stopped his movement. He glanced, wide eyed, at his friend.

Could he really want that? Could he possibly want a return to ignorance and fighting? To living with the words 'kill on sight' burned into every thought that concerned dragons? Could he actually be that selfish?

Toothless' calm eyes turned to him, the expression on that reptilian face so familiar. He could almost hear his friend thinking, "I know you better than that. You should, too."

Feeling humbled, he placed his hand very gently on the broad nose before him. Toothless sniffed deeply, taking in his scent.

"Come on, buddy. Let's go home."

They walked. It was a short distance and he still needed to practice using his new leg. By the time he reached his home and the new smithy beside it, his limp was pronounced. He wondered yet again how Gobber managed with two limbs gone. It never seemed to feel natural, like a real leg. Any prolonged effort at walking eventually left him in pain.

Sighing, he sat down on the edge of his new forge. At least he had one success to his credit, though he wanted more time to experiment with it. He looked around at the few tools he'd been given by his teacher and the couple of pieces of raw stock he could use. He couldn't help smiling. There was a lot of potential here, especially with his companion by his side. There were some interesting days ahead, he felt certain.

Then he noticed the puddle on his workbench. The roof of his smithy hadn't been fully waterproof and had leaked. In the center of the puddle was the knife blank he'd been working with Toothless the previous day. He groaned, wishing he'd brought it inside the house before it had rained. He picked it up, expecting a solid coat of rust to have turned the metal an ugly brown.

It was as unblemished as it had been the moment he'd pulled it from the forge, heated by dragon breath. There wasn't a speck of rust on it.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

Author's notes:

First, I'd like to make it clear that I've been going by the name Wirewolf for a very long time. However, since that username has been taken here, I will be posting under the name Athenaeum.

Second, I've been writing a very long time. I have a few dozen stories on another site, but I've been suffering a serious decline in my writing for almost 8 years now. What finally brought my interest in writing back was "How to train your dragon." It has seized my imagination and will not let go, not until I've finished this story. This will likely be my only HTTYD fanfic, and once it's done I hope to go back to writing my unfinished stories.

Third, after I decided to write "Broken", I made numerous notes, sketched out a variety of scenes and worked out an overall story arc. Then I found and the HTTYD stories posted here. I realized I could post my own work here, but wanted to know what kind of submissions had already been put forth. I read many stories and to my dismay, found almost all the ideas I had come up with on my own already represented in many different works posted. I want readers to know that, although you may find bits of my story to be a match for other submissions, I did actually come up with the ideas on my own and did not try to steal anyone's work.

Fourth, I've only seen the movie. The characters in it that are not given names (such as the village elder and various dragons adopted by the dragon training class) I named using internet reference sites. They may not match what many other authors (including Cressida Cowell) have used, but I think there's something to be said for using one's own creativity to fill in blank spots for a fanfic.

Last, I'm expecting this story to run 8 to 10 chapters. It may go a bit longer, depending on how things turn out.


	2. Guardian

Broken

Chapter 2: Guardian

It was a gorgeous night for flying. The full moon bathed the water below in spectral light and pierced the high thin clouds above. The only sound was the wind and the occasional seabird. Underneath her she felt the slight shifting of Folkvardr's wing muscles as he used the brisk sea breeze to keep them aloft. If she concentrated, she could also feel the faint rhythm of his heartbeat.

Clenching her mitten covered fists tighter around the hand grips of the saddle, she carefully leaned left to look at the black expanse of water below. It was difficult to tell how high they were flying. The reflection of moonlight on the water gave no good way to judge the distance between the back of her Nadder and the icy surface of the ocean. Looking to her right, she could see the faint glow of the fires burning in Berk.

They were slowly making their way home, braving the early spring weather. A furred cowl covered her head while a heavy wool jacket kept her body warm. She'd even taken to wearing a thick scarf over her nose and mouth while flying in the cold night air. Walking through the village in such weather was nothing to be concerned about, but the air higher up where a dragon could fly was surprisingly colder and could even be painful on exposed skin.

Folkvardr dipped a wing to angle them toward their home and began flapping a little harder. Seeing those welcoming fires made him eager to land. Astrid had no doubt he was hungry too and ready for his share of their afternoon's work.

She'd never imagined her life would be so fulfilling so early on. Half a year ago she'd spent every day preparing to join the never ending battle each villager fought against the dragons that raided them for food. She'd practiced and fought and impatiently waited for the day when she would become a guardian of her village. The days had promised a life that was never dull and always full of challenge.

Then her friend Hiccup turned the whole world upside down.

He learned things and did things that ultimately made life in Berk better than she had thought possible. He turned their greatest enemies into their strongest allies. His friendship with a Night Fury he called Toothless eventually resulted in the destruction of a single, terrifyingly powerful dragon they posthumously called 'The Red Death.' That, in turn, had released all the other dragons to behave as they wanted. And many dragons had since found a life in Berk, as pets to the villagers.

That's when Astrid found that flying on the back of a dragon was far and away more exhilarating than fighting it. To command something so powerful and dangerous while soaring in the air like a bird was a feeling she found she craved. Sometimes it was almost overwhelming. It spoke to her, sang in her blood like nothing else she'd ever experienced. Thanks to Hiccup, she'd left her hatred of dragons behind and had come to love them. No one could ask for a better pet.

But they were more than just pets. Even Astrid had to admit that. The creatures that had once threatened the very existence of Berk were now crucial to its survival.

The devastating battle they'd fought against The Red Death had left Berk barely able to feed itself. Most of their ships had been destroyed so it was very difficult to get hunters to the other nearby islands around Berk to seek game. Fishing had become harder, as well. And so her desire to be a guardian of her village became a reality. Just not the way she had expected.

All the skills she'd learned for the purpose of fighting dragons had been easily turned to hunting skills. She'd decided to learn to use a bow and began listening to Einarr, the master huntsman. The fierce determination she'd shown in learning to wield an axe she applied to her new weapon of choice. She'd learned quickly and become deadly accurate with it. Einarr taught her how to stalk and take down game animals. What she knew of fighting dragons gave her an edge in going after deer, boar and wild sheep.

So here she now was, riding her dragon Folkvardr and coming home from a successful hunt. The buck her Nadder clutched in his talons would help fill Berk's larders and help keep her kin from starving. Astrid could imagine no greater feeling, no higher role she could serve. Behind her thick gray scarf she smiled with ultimate satisfaction.

As they came in she saw Sigrid against the flames of the watchtower fire. His high perch over the harbor gave him a clear view of both ships and dragons coming in to Berk during the day. At night, however, he could only keep the fire burning brightly to help guide those coming home in darkness.

Astrid leaned forward, careful of the sharp spikes that ringed her Nadder's large head and rubbed his throat. "Let's let Sigrid know we're coming," she said. Folkvardr gave a chuckling rumble in answer before he bellowed in full voice. She saw Sigrid's head turn toward them and he waved in greeting.

Once they were in range of the firelight, she pulled back slightly on the saddle to get Folkvardr to hover near the sentry. "Is everyone else in?" she yelled.

"Aye, Astrid," Sigrid answered. "You're the last. I see you did well!"

"My biggest one yet!"

They each waved once more as Astrid coaxed her Nadder toward the central hall. Sigrid would now let the fire burn down and head for his own home. She had other things to attend to.

Although it was full dark, there was still some activity in Berk. The lights of the hall were burning. Doubtless some folks were still eating or having a game of dice or knucklebones. As Folkvardr landed with a gentle thump he called out in his croaking voice. Moments later Freya came out to find Astrid pulling the saddle off his back while the Nadder's head bobbed over the carcass of the deer.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Now that will fill many a stew pot!" She smiled at her niece and headed inside to get her carving blade. Minutes later she had one of the buck's hind legs neatly severed. She started work on the other one as Astrid picked up the haunch and offered it to her dragon. The Nadder carefully took it after snuffling her forehead a moment. He flew off with the leg dangling from his mouth, obviously happy with his lot.

As Freya worked to separate the second hind leg Astrid pulled off her mittens and other riding gear. She folded her cowl and mittens up into the jacket and tied the whole bundle with her scarf. "How did the rest do?" she asked her aunt.

"Oh, not bad. Not quite as good as yours, but helpful all the same. Little Spitlout found some duck eggs and I think his father's going to try to hatch them out. He has an idea he might be able to raise them for meat." The older woman made the last few cuts and the hindquarter fell from the deer's body. "Here you go, dear. And don't forget to hang it up to drain first."

The haunch was quite heavy, but she was able to carry it the short distance to her house without dragging it. Once there, she hung the meat on an empty hook hanging from the eaves. On one of the other hooks dangled several large fish. They hadn't been there when she'd left that morning. Astrid assumed her mother had traded one of the beautifully dyed wool blankets she was so skilled at making for the haddock. She looked closer at the fish and found them all whole and unmarked. That meant they had been netted rather than caught by one of the dragons who'd been taught to fish.

Inside the house her parents were just sitting down to a meal. They were happy to hear of the extra meat hanging outside and listened to her story of tracking the buck on one of the closer islands near Berk. Afterward she declared she would take a walk around the village.

"If you're going toward Hiccup's house, would you take that new tunic I made for him?" her mother asked. "He said he'd make us a new hinge for the door." With a hesitant smile, she agreed.

If there was anything less than perfect in her life now, it was Hiccup. There was still a soft ache in her heart for what could have been between them. She told herself often that it simply hadn't been meant to happen, that they were very different people. Most times that was enough. But sometimes she would think back to what they'd been through together, the changes she'd seen in him as he'd been forced to grow up faster than he'd wanted. She'd seen a true spark of Viking courage in him then. She'd watched him fight as hard as anyone ever had to protect everything he cared about.

And afterward she'd watched him become once again quiet and withdrawn. He'd started trying to drown himself in his craft of smithing, or hide himself behind the curious puzzles he discovered about dragons. His attention was always on the things around him, never on the people. Never on her.

Astrid wasn't the only one he failed to notice. Ruffnut had also found his new strength attractive and tried to gain his favor, only to find her interest ignored. Within a week, however, her own interest faded away and she sought other potentials.

As she approached Hiccup's house she glanced at the open-ended addition that he called his smithy. Unlike Gobber's smithy there were never any coals in the forge, no smoke coming from the chimney. She didn't understand how he worked any metal when he didn't have anything with which to heat it. But such strangeness was commonplace with Hiccup.

Astrid also glanced up at the roof of the house, a likely place to find Toothless snoozing. That was more common behavior for the daytime, though. As it was well after dark, she was not surprised to see no sign of him there. With a soft sigh, she approached the door and knocked.

Hiccup himself opened the door. He seemed surprised to see her there, but stepped aside and invited her in. The inside of his house was dark except for one corner where he had several candles burning. The hearth fire had been allowed to go down to smoldering coals and gave off no useful light. In that dim space she could see the large form of Toothless, though only after he lifted his head to stare at her. His eyes caught the candle light and reflected it as a faint yellow glow. His growling purr of delight at seeing her filled the room and brought a smile to her face.

She stepped closer to the lounging dragon and placed a hand under his wide chin to scratch there in comfortable familiarity. "Hey Toothless. Nice to see you." The black dragon nuzzled her arm and shoulder before giving her a single lick on her neck.

"How was your hunt?" Hiccup asked. He'd sat at the small work table where the candles burned. A large collection of scattered papers and a few open books covered its surface.

"Pretty good. I got a nice sized buck." She glanced briefly at him before giving Toothless a parting pat on his snout. "It was a tricky shot. He didn't want to come out from behind a tree." She took a few steps toward him, holding out the tunic. "This is for you, from my mother."

"Hmm?" He took it from her, looking confused for a moment. "Oh, the hinge, yeah. I'm almost done with it." He looked at the tunic, much like the one he was wearing. His fingers rubbed the softened wool, traced the leather strips that closed the neck and sleeves. "It's at Gobber's place. I didn't have the stock." He stopped speaking when he noticed the detail around the hem of the neck. Yellow circles in pairs followed the hem from the front to the back. Each pair of circles had dark centers, some wide and some narrow. "Are these..."

"His eyes," she confirmed. "My mother thought you might like it."

With a faint, shy smile he said, "Yes. Yes, very much." He looked up at her. And the instant he did, that tiny wince crossed his expression. She'd come to realize it meant being near her caused him some kind of quiet pain. "Would...would you thank her for me?" He looked down at the ring of Night Fury eyes that circled the neck of his new tunic.

Astrid stepped back. "Sure." And wanted to say more, wanted to ask him a dozen questions she didn't know how to ask. She looked around for a moment, as lost as he was. Then she realized something was amiss. "Stoick's out?"

"Yeah. Anvindr asked him if he wanted to go hunting on the east shore. Dad was more than happy to go." Hiccup's expression became distant, another sign she'd learned during the last few months. Apparently he and Stoick were still having trouble understanding one another. Astrid didn't understand Hiccup's problem on that count. There were no more secrets between them, no more disagreements about what Hiccup spent his time doing. He had found his place in the village and earned respect for his unusual talents with dragons. He was even doing some things with his smithing that had impressed Gobber.

So why, she wondered, did he often act as though nothing had changed?

Pushing her frustration aside, she pointed to the drawings and notes underneath his elbow. "So what are you working on now?"

He glanced down. "This? It's a new dragon manual."

Astrid leaned closer, trying to make out some of the words and pictures. "You're writing a new dragon manual?"

Hiccup nodded. "The old one was all wrong anyway. We need a new one. One that teaches about riding dragons. And taking care of them." He stared at his notes, then turned to her. "I could use your help."

"My help?" She was quite surprised by his request. "What could I possibly do? I don't write."

"You've been riding a Nadder longer than anyone else. You know more about them. Would you tell me what you know so I can put it in the manual?"

Astrid blinked in surprise. She'd never thought about it that way. She'd simply ridden her dragon and learned hunting. Knowing more about her species of dragon than anyone else had never occurred to her. "Well, yeah, I guess. Sure."

He turned back to his notes. "I'm working on the Gronckles right now. It'll be a while."

The more she thought about it the more the idea appealed to her. "Huh, I never would have thought of writing a new dragon manual. It's a good idea."

"Mmm," he said softly. "Assuming anyone ever reads it."

Astrid's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean? Everyone will need to read it. You said it yourself; the old one was all wrong."

Hiccup looked up at her with a pained expression.

"What?"

"Haven't you noticed?" His voice was strained.

"Noticed what? What are you talking about?"

His gaze drifted back to his work table again. His eyes closed and his expression became grim, as though he contemplated something personally hurtful.

"I think most people in the village still don't like dragons. Or don't trust them. Both, probably."

She scoffed. "Come on, Hiccup. That's silly." Thinking about her hunt that afternoon, she added, "Berk would be in real trouble without dragons now. I mean, we use them for hunting and fishing, they wander all over the village, little kids play with them. We ride them, for Odin's sake!"

"No," he replied. "Most of us don't." He looked up at her again. "I've noticed. It's almost always the younger ones that ride. Most of the older folks don't go near them unless they have to."

Astrid shook her head. "That's not true, lots of people fly dragons. They... well they..." She stopped, surprised. She tried to think of names of people who she knew rode the dragons that now seemed to call Berk their home. The more she tried, the more she realized Hiccup had a point. After the battle, everyone in the village had tried their hand at riding a dragon. Now, very few actually continued the practice. She'd been so caught up in riding Folkvardr that she hadn't really paid attention.

With a shrug, she said, "Well, so what? Most people probably still have too much other work to do to spend any time riding dragons. We still need to cut wood and make bread and mend nets and stuff."

"I don't think that's it. I'm afraid most people aren't ever going to really like dragons. They've hated them too long to know how to feel any other way."

She didn't really have an answer for that. She shook her head and said, "Look, none of that really matters anyway. What's important is that Vikings and dragons aren't fighting each other any more. Dragons are our friends now, and that's the way it should be."

Hiccup didn't seem convinced.

With a sigh, she added, "Look, if it worries you that much, maybe you should go talk to Freygerd about it. Maybe she can explain it."

He gave a slight nod. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right." She grinned at him. "You should be used to that by now."

A faint smile pulled at his lips. Astrid figured that was the best she would get from him. It was better than nothing.

"I'm heading home. I'll see you later." She moved toward the door, stopping by Toothless' shadowy form to stroke his shoulder in parting. He gave a content rumble in response.

With her hand on the Night Fury's warm, scaly hide, she had another thought. She looked back at her friend.

"You know, there's something else you should consider."

Hiccup looked her way. "What?"

"Maybe most Vikings are afraid of flying."

"Vikings?" he said incredulously. "Afraid?"

Astrid patted Toothless' shoulder. "I seem to remember my first time on a dragon's back started off with a lot of screaming on my part."

Now Hiccup looked confused. "I don't think..."

"Doesn't it ever bother you? When you're up really high?" She gave Toothless another pat and suddenly felt a need to say something she would never tell anyone else. "It does me. Sometimes." She felt an unexpected heat in her cheeks and turned toward the dragon, hoping Hiccup wouldn't notice. "Don't get me wrong, I love flying. It's the greatest thing in the world. But sometimes...I mean...what if you fell off?" The instant the words were out of her mouth, she wished she hadn't spoken them. She didn't like weakness of any kind. Admitting to her fear made her feel weak and she hated it. Several moments passed in silence, and she felt even worse that he didn't say anything. Finally, he did speak, his voice hushed.

"I did once."

She turned back toward him, her blush forgotten. "You...what?"

He looked from her to Toothless. "One of the first times I rode him. I was trying out the new controls for his tail fin. We went straight up, way up." His voice became a whisper. "I made a mistake. I fell off. I nearly killed both of us." He was just staring at his dragon, thinking back on that terrifying moment. "I still have nightmares about it sometimes."

She stared at him, utterly surprised. "I didn't know."

He gave a slight shrug. "I never told anyone."

"But...you didn't die. You kept flying."

"I had to," he replied. He was staring at Toothless as if the dragon were the only thing that existed. "He can't fly without me."

Astrid looked at the Night Fury. Toothless was staring calmly back at Hiccup. She looked from one to the other, wondering what she was seeing. For several moments, nothing else happened. Hiccup and his dragon simply gazed at one another. Then he said something so quietly she couldn't quite make it out. It sounded like, "Not yet."

"What?"

Hiccup shook his head and pushed away from his work desk. He rubbed his leg where wood and metal met damaged flesh. "Nothing. I'm just tired."

"Yeah," she said softly, feeling confused. "Well, good night." She turned to go, her eyes catching the reflection of Toothless' in the dim light. Now the dragon was staring directly at her, the faintest purring growl coming from the back of his throat. Her gaze was caught for a timeless moment, and she found herself thinking strange thoughts about her strange friend and his strange dragon. "Good night," she said again, this time to Hiccup's companion.

As she walked back toward the mead hall to get her riding clothes and go home, she couldn't help wondering if Hiccup's strangeness had affected his dragon. Or if perhaps Toothless was just as strange among dragons as his rider was among Vikings.

She stopped walking as a disturbing thought came to her. What if such strangeness were catching? Maybe that would explain the thoughts that were trying to form in her own mind. Thoughts about how similar Hiccup and Toothless really were. As if somehow they were the same person, in two different forms.

But that made no sense. Dragons weren't people.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

Author's note:

I had to make a few changes to the story listing. I didn't realize the rating and character attributes were story-wide and not chapter-by-chapter. "Broken" is now rated T for future chapters and lists Hiccup and Toothless as principles rather than Hiccup and Stoick.


	3. Council

Broken

Chapter 3: Council

The evening air was still and quiet. The darkening skies promised one or two more snow flurries before spring would be allowed to settle across the face of Berk for good. A wide shouldered man with a broad leather belt and heavy fur cloak gazed at the quiet homes of his village, grateful for the peaceful moment.

As Stoick stepped from Freygerd's small cottage, he felt as lost as he had when he'd entered. He'd come seeking answers to his questions, solutions to his problems. He'd been given answers, but no solutions. Not that he'd honestly expected any. His own father had taught him that true leaders either created solutions or destroyed problems. As a Viking, destroying problems was the preferred method.

Some problems, he'd eventually discovered, couldn't be destroyed.

Despite the fact that his visit to the village elder hadn't helped him, Stoick did not despair. He had other resources. And it was early enough that his next visit would not be unusual or unseemly.

The tribal chief moved through his village quietly, keeping his eyes open for movement. No one else seemed to be stirring outside their homes at the moment, and the few dragons he noticed were perched atop the larger buildings or lazing in the newly built barns that had been constructed for their use. It still baffled him that dragons, beasts used to the outdoors and all manner of weather, would want to spend their nights confined within wooden walls. Not that many did, but enough of them took to their stalls with a willingness that made the construction worth the effort. To some people, at least.

Stopping in the middle of the village's gathering circle, he gazed at the houses that surrounded him. Light from fires and candles leaked around doors and shutters. Voices muted by distance and walls reached his ears, calm and comforting. He drew a deep breath, letting the familiar scents of earth and wood and stone fill him.

Stoick looked first to his own house. There was light under the door, so likely his son and his pet were within. He turned away with a frown. Toward the cliff, he gazed at another specific house. There was dim, flickering light coming from behind the shutters there, too. As he stared, he also saw small, flitting shadows moving around the building's roof. His frown intensified for a moment, then faded. He shook his head and headed instead toward the training ring.

Even the solid familiarity of the stone arena couldn't ease Stoick's discomfort. It had changed, and largely for the same reason everything else in Berk had changed. The wooden doors that had imprisoned captured dragons were gone. The cavernous granite pens were now used as stables and storage. The heavy metal rods and chains that had formed the top of the arena's cage were partly missing, dismantled and put to better use.

The sight of the arena warred bitterly with the memories he had of this special place. Some of the most important moments in his life had happened here. He could see them clearly in his mind. He closed his eyes and remembered. It was all there, as if it had only just happened; the sounds of cheering villagers, the roar of angry beasts, the satisfying clang, thud and rip of weapons biting deep into his enemy's flesh. The floor would be covered in shadows and blood, some of it his own. He could smell sweat, leather and steel, heated by the bright summer sun and mixed with the heady tang of spilled dragon guts. Such glory!

He opened his eyes and it was like a hammer blow to his heart to see the new way of things. For a moment, he felt a red rush of anger. It was as if everything he'd ever valued had been thrown away, declared foolish and of no use. But the moment passed, his anger cooled. He knew full well the changes that had happened had actually been for the benefit of the entire village. That was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? To keep his people safe and fed? Maybe even find a way to bring them a bit of prosperity? Those were things any good leader would want for his tribe.

He'd done the very best he could, leading his tribe in the only way he knew, the way he'd been taught by his father. He'd fought the enemy head on when it showed itself, he'd tended to the greatest needs of food and shelter, and he'd made certain the young were taught the ways of a true fighting Viking. In this way, he'd believed that when he found himself in the halls of Valhalla he could greet his forefathers with pride.

His greatest challenge had come not from dragons or the destruction, hunger and death that those flying beasts represented, but from his own issue. Hiccup had proven capable of little more than thwarting his best efforts at raising a proper son. Frustration and sometimes real anger had stood between him and the one person he'd hoped he could count on. More than once he'd found himself balling up his huge fists, wanting to simply _beat_ sense into his son. Not that Hiccup's slim, fragile body could have withstood such a blow.

The boy had failed Stoick's hopes completely despite his best efforts. His slender frame was unfit for fighting, his mind unable to focus on the most important lessons he needed to learn. And that meant Stoick himself had failed Berk. When the day came that his empty body was placed on a pyre and the smoke rose to stain the sky, there would be no one who could take his place.

It had finally gotten so bad that he'd started sending out ships to find the lair of their enemy and strike at their heart. He'd come to believe that destroying the dragon's nest was the only way to secure Berk against the inevitable failure that Hiccup would be as leader.

He'd failed there, as well. Loss of ships and men the village could barely afford to lose had made things worse. Before, the dragons had routinely taken whatever extra provisions they'd managed to accumulate and destroyed enough houses in the village to ensure that most of Berk's time and energy would be spent in restocking and rebuilding. Eventually they had to face the fact that their efforts to find the nest and destroy the beasts for good had pushed their resources beyond their limits.

The idea had finally come to him that it may fall to his brother's son to lead Berk when the time came. He'd not spoken of this to anyone, but the more he'd thought on it, the more obvious it had become.

Stoick had left Berk one last time, hoping to find a way to destroy the menace that had plagued them all for centuries. If he failed, he would have no path left to take but to begin training Snotlout to be the chief of the tribe when he eventually fell. The desperation of that voyage had been like a lump of cold, rotting meat in his stomach during the entire trip.

He'd returned to face several unexpected shocks.

First his son, his stick-limbed and ever-distracted offspring, had finally shown skill in the arena. Hiccup had succeeded in winning the honor of making his first dragon kill as Stoick and the entire village looked on. The pleasure of that moment had so eased his mind that he felt he could charge directly into a Monstrous Nightmare's gullet and kill the beast from the inside.

Then, the most unthinkable betrayal. Hiccup, son of Stoick the Vast, apprentice to Gobber the Belch, future leader of Berk, had shown himself to be a traitor of the worst kind. He'd been cavorting with the most feared dragon known. He'd somehow tricked a Night Fury into being his pet. To make matters worse, he'd shown no remorse in his deceit. The boy's only concern had been the welfare of the black devil. Stoick had reacted the only way he possibly could; he'd disowned his son and gone in search of the lair of his greatest enemy. The tool of the dragons undoing would be the very beast his misbegotten son had ensnared.

The final shock was the battle, starting with the appearance of a creature so immense and powerful that Stoick uttered words he'd never before spoken; "Odin help us!" His plea had not been answered. At least, not by Odin.

How could he have known? What could have possibly prepared him to see his wisp of a son appear in the sky riding a dragon? Only minutes before, he'd been forced to see that his eagerness to destroy the dragon's nest was going to be the ultimate undoing of Berk. Then he saw, with his own eyes, what his son was truly capable of. He finally understood where Hiccup's power lay. And with that last, numbing acknowledgment had come the slender thread of hope that they might all live through the day.

From that day to this, Stoick's world had been utterly reshaped. His son, in the inconceivable role of savior, had begun molding people and dragons into new forms.

Failing to find comfort in the place he'd become a true Viking so many years ago, Stoick the Vast turned to leave the arena. As he moved up the ramp to the permanently open gate, he looked to his right. His axe still hung in its place of honor, the plaque beneath showing his name and the year he'd killed a Skrill within those stone walls. Pleased something of the old world hadn't changed, he plucked it from the bracket. He swung it experimentally, remembering the way it had cleaved the dragon's skull in two. Running his thumb over the rusting edge, he was dismayed to find it brutally blunted. It looked as though someone had slammed it hard into the stone floor of the arena.

Then he remembered. Astrid Hofferson had used it to force open the inner door of the arena the day of Hiccup's final trial. She'd done it to save his son. And while he couldn't fault her for using whatever was at hand in a time of crisis, he still felt a simmering anger, like a banked fire. Was there nothing in Berk that had remained unchanged after that day?

Besides himself?

No, that wasn't true. Stoick had been forced to change along with everything and everyone else. He hadn't any other choice. That, he realized, was probably what bothered him most.

Turning his back on his memories, he headed for Gobber's house.

* * *

He rapped lightly on the door with the axe, glancing with displeasure at the Terrible Terrors that were flittering around the roof of the blacksmith's home. For some reason those smallest of dragons seemed to prefer his friend's company.

A heavy shuffling and a low rumbling growl set Stoick's hand tightening around the handle of his trophy axe. The great snaggletoothed head of the Boneknapper dragon Gobber had claimed as his own snaked around the side of the house from where the huge beast had been sleeping. It blinked lazily at Stoick before giving a quiet 'growf' and disappearing again. Before he could decide whether or not he'd just been insulted, the door opened and Gobber's solid frame filled the entrance.

The blacksmith seemed surprised to see his friend so late in the evening, but smiled all the same as he stepped aside to let him in. Neither said a word as Gobber sat himself back in his favorite chair and resumed filing the edges of a strange bowl he placed in his lap. Stoick took the other large chair in the room and watched him work for several minutes, content to let the harsh metallic scratching sound of the rasp smoothing the bowl's rim mark the moments. The piece looked familiar somehow, though he felt certain he'd not seen it before. He placed his own axe across his lap and let the memories of friendship and kinship ease his mind.

He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until a ringing thud caused them to open. For a fleeting moment he was confused. Gobber's left arm stump was totally bare, the pale calloused flesh showing a faint red ring where the ropes normally helped secure the metal socket against the damaged limb. Stoick had seen the results of that particular injury during and after the healing process and its lumpy, misshapen form was nothing unusual to him. But it did remind him of an uncomfortably vivid image far newer to his memory. His eyes drifted down to his axe, and he felt vaguely ashamed for looking away.

After a few more minutes of stroking the flattened edge of his weapon, Berk's leader heard, "Ah, that's got it." He looked up to find the bowl Gobber'd been working on was a replacement socket for his shortened arm. The smith reached down beside his chair and picked up his work tongs, sliding the tang of the instrument into the socket's round opening. He gave the tongs a twist before pulling on them, seeing how secure they fit. "I finally wore it out," he explained, lifting his gaze to his friend's eyes. "My sticks kept falling out."

Stoick gave a nod and a smile, remembering the first time he'd called Gobber's interchangeable tools 'sticks.' The smith had grimaced at him with both humor and the pain of a recently healed wound and replied, "Eh, you're just jealous because my stick is longer than yours."

The master blacksmith leaned back in his chair, the worn and stained leather creaking comfortably. "So, what brings ye?"

With the ease of long practice, Stoick hefted the axe single handedly and tossed it to Gobber. The younger man caught it easily and gave it a cursory glance. He immediately noticed the dulled edge and the rust. "Mmm, the rust is old but the blunting is recent. Where'd you get this?" Then he noticed the mark on the handle and the silver end cap that signified a trophy weapon. "Hey, I recognize this blade." He looked up at his friend. "But I don't remember that Skrill's head being all that hard."

Stoick smiled thinly, the memory of that struggle bringing a spark to his eyes. It had been a fight to remember, lasting a full five minutes before he'd slain the monster. The axe had been his third choice after a mistimed blow shattered his war hammer and the dragon had managed to latch its powerful jaws on the sword he'd grabbed next.

His smile faded as he thought of the arena in its current state, of the dancing shadows that hovered over Gobber's roof, of his son and the black beast that clung to him.

The smith sighed and stood, stumping over to a pair of mugs on the mantle. One he socketed to his arm after dropping the tongs and the other he held in his remaining hand. He filled both from the small cask he kept for his own comfort and took Stoick's to him. After he'd thumped back into his chair and both men had raised their mugs in silent salute, they drank.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his remaining hand, Gobber said, "I'll take a wild guess and say you're not here to get an old head lopper cleaned up and sharpened for sentimental reasons."

With a shrug, Stoick waved a casual hand at the simple but comfortable appointments of the smith's house. "I just wanted to spend some time where nothing's been changed."

An understanding smile creased Gobber's smudged face. Traces of soot and his supper were clinging to his cheeks and chin. His eyes crinkled with humor as he leaned back in his chair. "I know what you mean. No beasties in here, not even the little 'uns. George has tried a time or two, but a good swat with a mace sets him to rights."

Stoick's brows dipped in confusion. "George?"

A meaty, recently burned thumb pointed at the door. "My Boneknapper."

He wasn't really sure how to take his friend's statement. "George."

It was Gobber's turn to shrug. "Well, I couldn't name him Phil. Not after he ate...Phil." The big man sighed sadly for the loss of his pet ram. "So...George."

Stoick got the disturbing feeling the last place in Berk he could go where things wouldn't change had, in fact, changed more than he'd realized. For a moment, just a brief space of a few heartbeats, he felt as if he'd been betrayed. The only place left in Berk for true Vikings to take their ease and remember the world as it had been was tainted by the pervasive scaled presence of dragons, even if only in spirit.

He glanced down at his mug, the ale less than half gone. His knuckles had gone white around the handle as he unwittingly squeezed it as hard as he could.

Gobber noticed. Berk's master smith had, in fact, been watching Stoick closely since they'd first sat down. He knew the man well enough to know that he hadn't shown up just to pass the time drinking with a friend. The village's leader obviously had a problem and wanted council. Gobber considered it a matter of pride that Stoick would come to him like this now and again. But whatever was on the man's mind was not an easy thing to discuss or he would have already said something.

He decided to take advantage of the situation. With luck, Stoick would find a way to bring up whatever was troubling him.

"As it happens," he said casually, taking a moment to bring his thoughts to order and down another swallow of ale, "I need to talk to you about Hiccup." Stoick's expression moved quickly from surprise to mild confusion, then to a more deliberate calm. The man had many mixed feelings about his son right now, he knew. But he'd made his opening and pushed on. "I'm sure you've heard about what he's been making in that little forge of his."

Mild contempt showed plainly in both Stoick's expression and voice. "Metal that doesn't rust? That's not even possible."

Gobber held up his hand. "Now hold on. It's no idle boast. I've looked at it, and it really is what he says it is." The contempt in his friend's eyes faded, replaced with surprise and confusion, again. "I know, it sounds crazy. And it's not perfect. But you can throw something he makes into a bucket of water for a week, or leave it lying on the ground outside. Aside from a few tiny specks, there's no real rust."

"But, how can he possibly do that?"

The smith smiled widely. "With dragon fire, of course!" He chortled at the look of disbelief on Stoick's face. "Have ye not wondered why he never uses any coal in his forge? Why there's no smoke in your house when he's working?"

"I've been busy."

The tone of his voice told Gobber it might be best to leave that topic alone. "Anyway, he's been getting that great black lizard of his to heat metal. Something in the beast's breath seems to change it. He's said something about wanting to try getting other dragons to do the same, to see if there's a difference between species. I've been trying to get George to do it in my forge, but I can't get the lummox to concentrate long enough." He laughed again, remembering his last attempt. "He'd rather play fetch with my tools!"

"What of it?"

Gobber's laughter quickly tapered off when he heard the cool tone in Stoick's voice.

"Well," he said simply, "I was wondering if maybe we could start trading with some of the other villages. We haven't heard from them for so long, I wonder if some folks don't think we're the only people in the world."

"Every child gets taught that we were cut off from other tribes by dragon attacks," was the even reply. "Ships stopped coming after the first dozen or so were sunk in our harbor."

"Ach, I know that." Gobber waved a dismissive hand. "But that was so long ago. When was the last time we even tried to get to one of the other tribes? I mean, we've been on our own all this time. If we could start trading again, we could start living a bit better. Without dragons burning up or stealing everything we need just to get by, we could start trading on a regular basis." Now that he was approaching the topic he really wanted to discuss, he got a bit excited. "We'll need more metal, eventually. Oh, we're making do with what I'm pulling out of the arena, but I'd like to get more. And Hiccup has this idea about mixing metals, now that he can get them hotter than my old forge ever could. There's no telling what that rustless stuff he's making could be worth to other smiths. Maybe we could even-"

"Are we still Vikings?" Stoick interrupted, his head down and his eyes dark.

The wind was snatched out of Gobber's sails quite thoroughly. He stared at his old friend, blinking and trying to understand the question. "What do you mean?"

The older man's gaze rested firmly on the contents of his mug. He spoke slowly, and Gobber realized whatever was bothering him was finally working its way out. "I was out hunting with Anvindr a few days ago. He asked me that question. I said it was a crazy thing to ask. But he got me thinking."

"I don't understand. Why wouldn't we be Vikings?" The phrase itself seemed insulting to Gobber. He frowned and waved his hand in dismissal. "Bah. We'll always be Vikings and that's that."

"Last autumn I would have agreed with you. To be a Viking you went out and killed dragons or you waited for them to raid and killed them here. You went out and hunted and fished and got your own food. You practiced with your weapons and you taught the young to fight." Stoick's smoldering gaze lifted and he stared his friend straight in the eye. "Now dragons are pets. They wander all over the place and never bother anyone except by accident. And they catch fish for us and bring us deer and boar. We eat meat that we didn't catch ourselves and play nice with our enemies."

Stoick's face darkened as the wrongness of it rose up in him. "We don't fight anyone anymore. We might as well become farmers and start planting crops." His eyes narrowed. "Or merchants, sailing around in fat cargo ships full of wool and… and… iron that doesn't rust!"

Gobber stared at his old friend, deeply troubled by his words. He was careful to keep his worry from showing, but he had to admit that Stoick had a strong argument. "So," he said softly, "what do you think we should do?"

Berk's leader shook his head slowly. "We can't do anything! Dragons aren't a problem anymore and we have no ships to spare. It's all we can do to feed ourselves right now." He grimaced. "Gobber, I don't want to eat any more fish with dragon tooth marks in them!"

The smith frowned slightly. "Wait a minute. Are you mad that we don't have enemies to fight or that dragons are helping us fill the larders?"

Stoick banged his mug hard on the arm of his chair, sending a small geyser of ale slopping over his wrist, the arm of the chair and the floor. "I don't like the way things are now! I didn't want them to change!"

They stared at each other, the silence broken only by the small fire on the hearth. Gobber understood what was troubling his friend. He hadn't expected it, though he realized he probably should have. He'd had much the same kind of confrontation with him after the loss of Hiccup's mother. The man who was responsible for the welfare of the village occasionally needed someone to help him with his own welfare.

But this was very unlike his friend, this outburst. It sounded petulant, almost childish to his ears. Stoick didn't like the changes his son had unwittingly forced on all of Berk. Gobber could understand that. Maybe his friend felt powerless in the way his attack on the nest had failed and his disgrace of a son had saved them all from that folly. Gobber could understand that, too.

To say that the people of Berk were no longer Vikings as a result, however, did not sit well with him at all. To Gobber's eyes, the dragons were simply animals that had been domesticated. Much like the dogs that now took the place of wolves, they'd been turned from predators to pets, and all for the better. If Stoick didn't like the fact that he couldn't kill a dragon without its owner getting upset...

Gobber held up his mug. "I didn't want to lose my hand," he said softly, but with a hard edge to his voice. He lifted his leg stump. "I didn't want to lose my leg, either. But it happened. Nothing to be done about it but go on." He stared down at his peg leg, as thought it had suddenly offended him. "Look at me," he muttered. "Mangled, pieces missing. I'm no warrior. A bloody blacksmith. Aye, I can kill dragons. I can kill men." He looked up at Stoick, his face flushed red, his eyes filled with anger. "I'll never get into Valhalla. It's been years since I actually killed a dragon, and now we don't even do that any more." He balled up his hand and slammed it down so hard on the arm of his chair the wood frame fractured. "But I'm still a Viking! I was born a Viking, I'll die a Viking and any man who says different will get my axe across his skull!"

Once again silence settled over the two men as they sat, glaring at one another. They'd been here before. In their youth, they'd have next been on the ground grappling, trying to win the argument with fists. Age and maturity had eventually pushed that out of their minds. In its place had come respect and a willingness to listen and consider the other side of an argument.

Several tense minutes slid by as each man considered what had been said. Having said what was in their thoughts, it was only left for them to see if the argument continued or had been settled.

Eventually, Stoick's grip on his mug eased, his knuckles gaining their color once again. Strangely, though, his expression was still grim. Gobber could see there was something else in him that needed to come out.

"Anvindr thinks we should start training dragons to raid other tribes."

And there it was; the other half of the puzzle. Gobber nodded slightly. "He does, eh?"

This was not a surprise to the smith. He'd had the same thought himself. He knew others who'd mentioned it in passing. But he'd spent some time thinking about the idea. He didn't know if anyone else had, including Stoick.

"You can see what's wrong with that idea, of course."

Stoick drew a long, deep breath and slowly let it go, his posture and expression easing as he did so. "Aye."

Gobber was heartened to hear that, but just to make sure, he said, "If we take the few ships we have left and go on a raid, we'd be lucky to carry it off, even luckier if we didn't lose some of those ships. If we succeed, we'll likely get attacked in return. If _we_ get attacked, it's a sure wager the dragons will wind up helping to defend Berk. If word of _that_ gets out, other tribes will start to fear us for being too powerful. They'll band together to destroy us."

"Right," was the quiet response. "And if we trained the dragons to do the raiding, the others would just come after us that much sooner."

"Vikings won't stand for being conquered." Gobber gave a rueful chuckle. "They'd make the battles we had against dragons seem like child's play." He had another thought. "You know, we've not heard from anyone in so long, we don't know that other tribes haven't done the same thing we have." That drew a startled look from his friend. "Maybe Hiccup's not the first one in the world to make friends with one of these scaly buggers."

The two of them considered that for a moment. It was an idea they found appealing and disturbing at the same time. If the other tribes had taken to taming dragons the way Berk had, there'd be no shame in the way they were now living. But wouldn't that also mean that there were no true, dragon fighting Vikings left anywhere in the world?

"Well, we won't know unless we send out at least one ship to go see for ourselves." Gobber took another pull on his ale. "I'd suggest looking for trade first, until we at least see who's still out there and what they're doing."

Stoick frowned. They'd come back around to Gobber's idea again. And it made sense. But there was still something wrong, something that bothered him mightily. Before he could mention it, the smith distracted him.

"I'd like to be on that ship, if it goes." He smiled faintly. "I want to make sure if we trade for any metals, we get good ingots in return."

Stoick's frown deepened. "You want to leave Hiccup in charge of the smithy while you're gone?" Gobber just looked at him. It took a moment for him to realize he was still thinking of his son in the old terms. "Right. Well then." He sighed. "One ship."

"Maybe we should take the 'Night Fury.'"

"NO!" He was about to thump his mug on the arm of the chair again when he heard Gobber burst out laughing. He gave a fair smile of his own and simply said, "Take 'Rorik'. It's the least suited for fishing anyway."

When he'd calmed down a bit, the smith began figuring what trade items they could take with them. He'd obviously been considering the idea for a while, for he had quite a list of things he believed would make for good barter. He was trying to decide what he might make in his own forge to take when Stoick interrupted him again.

"You never did answer my question."

Gobber's face slowly darkened. "Yes, I did." He wasn't happy about having to have the same argument a second time.

"You really think we can call ourselves Vikings living like this?"

With a weary sigh, he said, "Maybe I'm not the right person to give you council on this. I think Freygerd could better lay your troubles at ease. You might consider talking to her."

His friend paused, obviously dismayed. "I did."

Somewhat alarmed by that admission, Gobber quietly asked, "What did she say?"

"She said..." Another, longer pause. "She said...that we stopped being Vikings the day Hiccup killed the Red Death."

Gobber's face fell. For Freygerd to say such a thing was unthinkable. And confusing. "What does that mean?"

Stoick shook his head. "I don't really know." He gave a helpless shrug. The village elder was the only person who made him feel uncomfortable. She was tiny , she was old, and she was unimaginably wise. When she spoke it was best to listen. And she'd told him several things he'd never thought he'd hear. Not from her, nor anyone else. But what she'd said hadn't made complete sense, either. "You know how she is sometimes. I couldn't even tell for sure if she was proud of what she told me or felt bad about it."

The younger man was still shocked. "What does she think we'll be now?"

"She didn't say." He frowned, remembering her words. "But she did say that Hiccup is going to be the last true Viking Berk ever sees."

"Hiccup?"

Stoick nodded.

To Gobber, that made even less sense. In his eyes, Hiccup wasn't a real Viking. He didn't say so out loud, but he felt sure everyone understood the truth of things. The boy never completed his training, never killed a dragon. Not himself. Oh, he'd outsmarted one, tricked it into killing itself. Not that doing so wasn't a feat worthy of a drinking song or two. But Stoick's son never actually did what was needed to be considered a 'true Viking.'

So how was he going to be the last one Berk ever saw if no one killed dragons anymore?

By then it was late, and both men were tired. Stoick left Gobber to his confusion and disquiet. The smith spent a few more minutes trying to puzzle out what Freygerd had meant, then gave up and headed for his bed.

Removing his peg and the socket on his arm, he rolled himself up in the blankets and furs on his bed. His troubled thoughts followed him for a time, but soon his eyes started to get heavy.

Before he fell asleep, he heard the flutter of small wings and a soft chirrup. A slight weight landed on his hip then scurried up toward his head. He waved his hand with gentle care at the small intruder.

"Ach, leave off Phil. I'm tired."

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission


	4. Portrait

Broken

Chapter 4: Portrait

The frigid seas around Berk were being generous. The few ships that were out dropping nets and lines hadn't even gotten out of sight of the village before they found large schools of cod and haddock. The dozen or so dragons wheeling through the brilliant spring sky were having an easy time of it as well. It seemed every time a brightly colored body dove into the gentle swells, it came up with a wriggling silver reward.

Jaspin watched with great pride and interest as his Nadder, Bitequick, circled lazily, seemingly content to do nothing more than ride the soft morning breeze. Now and again she would suddenly fold her wings and plunge head first into the water. She would be out of sight for only a moment before she would resurface, thrusting herself up out of the water with as much speed and violence as she had entered. Two or three hard sweeps of her wings would get her clear of the water. Her head would drop down to strain out the water in her mouth, then tip back to swallow her prize. Sometimes she would have to bite the fish into smaller pieces in order to swallow it.

The whole process still fascinated Jaspin.

Bitequick made certain to keep an eye on him as she fed. Every third fish or so she would coast back over the cliffs where Jaspin sat and trill to him. Once she even flew directly over his head and let the very tip of her armored tail brush through his hair. It amazed him that she could fly with such tremendous precision, using the dangerously spiked member to playfully tease her rider. It was even more amazing that the word 'playful' could be used to describe anything about dragons.

As the sun warmed the ground and the cool ocean breeze tugged at his dark hair, Jaspin felt his eyes get heavy. He scooted over to where he had left Bitequick's saddle on the ground and leaned against it, trying to get comfortable. His left hand idly toyed with one of the stirrups, running his hand over the rough leather. Numerous saddles for dragons had been made all at once, and most had not been finished with any great detail. They were sturdy and comfortable but plain. Not that Jaspin minded.

His fingers found a strange gap in the leather. He looked down at the stirrup he'd been handling and saw a deep cut in the strap. Looking closer, he realized the stirrup would break if put under any serious strain. He thought it odd that it should be so seriously damaged when it was so new. He couldn't remember doing anything that might have inflicted such a cut.

Upon reflection, he realized that it might have been the Nadder's own teeth that had sliced the saddle like that. Deadly Nadders were known to spend a lot more time grooming than other species of dragon, and her own sharp teeth may have unknowingly cut the stirrup as she was preening.

Having decided not to worry about how the damage had happened, Jaspin knew that a visit to Hiccup for repair would be in order. That suited him fine. He liked talking to the blacksmith's apprentice. He felt certain Hiccup was the only other resident of Berk who liked dragons as much as Jaspin himself did.

Looking up at the graceful forms dancing among the clouds, he couldn't help but compare how he used to think of dragons. Like many in the village, he often wondered at how much life had changed in such a short time. And to him, it seemed as though every day that passed made the old way of life in Berk seem more like a bad dream than real history.

He took a small amount of pride in being old enough to remember that dragons had once been the bane of Viking life. It didn't bother him that the change had happened only half a year ago and that all but the newborn babe in the Sturlubók house knew and remembered. As long as he himself carried the memory, he would eventually be able to tell future generations of Vikings of how life had once been so different. And Jaspin was absolutely certain he would remember.

He remembered wanting, as all children born in Berk did, to become the fiercest, most celebrated dragon killer in the village. He'd spent the winters listening to stories told by the adults of glorious battles against the fire-breathing monsters that regularly attacked them. During the few warmer months he would peer through the cracks around the door of his house to watch those battles take place. He'd thought it was both exciting and terrifying to see the life and death struggles happening within an axe throw of where he crouched.

When he'd passed his fourteenth winter, he'd been given training to be outside during attacks, but only as an observer. He'd been handed a short sword, drilled on its proper use and care and then assigned a spot on one of the fire towers that ringed the village. His job had been to make certain that no dragons were able to go unobserved during a raid. He'd been told that if he saw anything that needed to be dealt with, he was to ring the bell in the tower and point to the source of trouble.

What Jaspin had never anticipated was his reaction to seeing dragons up close.

At first, it was confusing and dizzying and more than a little frightening. He was out there, in the tower where any dragon might pluck him up and carry him off. Or worse, burn him to a crisp with a fireball. His first raid was mostly spent huddled down below the low wooden wall of the tower's landing. Winged bodies had seemed to fill the air, along with the roars and growls of the beasts. Before long, however, he'd gathered the courage to stick his head out beyond the wall and watch for dragon mischief. What he saw surprised him.

For all their ferocity, dragons were the most beautiful things Jaspin had ever seen.

He'd known they were still terrifying monsters that needed to be destroyed. Yet as he'd watched the attacks play out beneath him, he'd found himself staring at the creatures with an unexpected sense of appreciation. They'd moved with a grace no person could match. The sinuous twisting and turning of their bodies let them flit around the roofs of the houses the way a tiny seabird would dance among the waves. Even the bulky Gronckles, with their small, buzzing wings moved in a stately fashion that was strangely appealing. They roared and snorted and growled and made all manner of other sounds Jaspin couldn't quite describe. And the colors, even muted as they were in the faint light of fires started by both Vikings and dragons, were hard to believe. It almost looked like a field of spiky, flaming flowers had taken wing and were trying to destroy the plants from which they'd blossomed.

He quickly realized that the ugliness of dragons lay in what they did, not in their forms or colors. From that point on, Jaspin had felt vaguely uneasy about his future concerning dragons. It felt wrong to appreciate Berk's eternal enemies in any way. Dragons raided them, they fought back, deaths occurred on both sides and an unending and uncompromising hatred resulted. There was more than enough reason to despise their scaled foes. The very idea of liking anything about them tasted of treason.

The more he thought about it, however, the more Jaspin had to admit to himself that he liked dragons, even if he thought himself wrong for doing so. He kept his feelings a secret. He was willing and more than able to tell anyone who might have asked that he wanted every dragon to die, preferably at his own hands. But deep inside he saw them as fire-breathing beauties.

He grew more concerned about his feelings when he started to dislike seeing dragons killed by the Vikings of Berk. It was hard to appreciate the colors and forms of such graceful flying reptiles when their bodies were hacked to pieces and their blood stained the grass. He didn't want to let the dragons continue raiding his village without trying to stop them, but he hated the fact that they had to be brutally killed to be stopped. He started to wonder if he would be capable of becoming a dragon killer as he'd always wanted. The idea of destroying something he found so fascinating, so appealing had him wishing for things he knew would never happen.

When he started to hear of Hiccup's abilities in the training arena, he became curious. Not because the scrawny failure of a Viking was suddenly doing so amazingly well in his training, but that he seemed to be able to control the beasts without harming them. Jaspin started watching the chief's son during his sessions with Gobber and the other teens in the group. The things he saw Hiccup do gave him new hope. The young man was defeating dragons over and over, sometimes without any weapon in his hands.

As the training progressed, Jaspin became one of Hiccup's fans. He followed him when he could, listening to him talk about dealing with Berk's oldest and most destructive enemies. He watched every training session the boy went through, even the ones that didn't involve fighting dragons directly. He made sure to always be there, watching, learning and hoping to someday perform the same feats.

Jaspin had also been at Hiccup's final trial. He'd seen the chief's son approach the Monstrous Nightmare, unarmed, his hands outstretched. He'd heard him say the words, "They're not what we think they are. We don't have to kill them."

That breathtaking event had filled him with a sudden and overpowering need to have those statements proven true. Without realizing what he was doing, he'd thrust his arms between the bars of the arena cage, wanting nothing more than to join Hiccup next to the dragon and touch the very thing that had captivated him.

Luckily for him, he couldn't fit through the bars. Even more fortunate for him was the result of the battle of Red Death Island. Only days after Hiccup defeated the largest and most menacing dragon ever encountered, more dragons descended on Berk. To Jaspin's amazement and joy, the Vikings allowed it. The conflict between the two sides, apparently caused by the Red Death, was over. Jaspin spent a whole day wandering the village, looking at the dragons up close.

Something else happened, something he'd never imagined was even possible or desirable: Vikings took to riding dragons, mounting them as they would the Icelandic Ponies their ancestors had once owned. The very idea thrilled him to his core. He spent countless hours watching the Gronckles and Nadders and other species, looking for just the right creature.

He finally found her, perched on the roof of his own home as though she'd been waiting for him to notice her. It was hard not to notice the vibrant blue and brilliant yellow of her scales, the dense, splotchy mix of red, blue, yellow and green on her wings. It was even harder not to notice the intent regard of her yellow eye as she cocked her head to one side so as to get a good look at him.

By then he'd heard others talking and knew how to approach a dragon. He ran back to the mead hall, the only place he knew would have fish ready for him to grab. As he rushed up the stairs he met two others coming out, Mursi Laxdale and his son Sigvat. Both had large fish in their hands and grins on their faces. He stepped inside, only to see Freya Hofferson point to a big, smelly basket by the door. "Go ahead, it's obvious there'll be no fish for the pot tonight. I hope everyone likes leftover stew, it's all that'll be left by evening!"

For all her complaining, Freya didn't seem to actually be mad about all the fish being taken and fed to dragons. She was probably as relieved to be done with the war as everyone else.

Jaspin had snagged a nice, fat fish and pelted back to his house, hoping the Nadder was still waiting for him.

He stopped again when he came within sight of his home. She was still there, sitting on top of the house as if she owned it. She muttered and chuckled as he came closer, watching him closely. Her twitchy, birdlike movements enthralled him. She was amazing!

Holding the fish up by the gills so she could see it, he whistled softy. "Here you go," he said quietly, wanting to sound as non-threatening as possible. Unlike the teens who had recently been training to kill the likes of her, Jaspin didn't feel the deep-seated distrust of dragons. When she jumped down from her perch and landed with a considerable thud, Jaspin merely took a single step back to allow her room. He held the fish out again at arm's length. "Hungry?"

Turning her head one way, then the other to gaze from the fish to Jaspin, the Nadder seemed to take the measure of both the food and its provider. When she found both to her satisfaction, she took a step forward and brought her large horned head down to his level. She snuffled the fish without opening her mouth, then did the same to Jaspin. The feel of her curiously soft snout as it brushed across his forehead gave him an immense thrill. He held the fish out for her, but his eyes were busy taking in the amazing details of her scales, her horns, her quick, darting eyes.

Without even realizing it had happened, the fish disappeared from Jaspin's hands. He gasped in momentary fright, looking at his palms. Despite the speed and vigor with which the dragon had snatched the food from his hands, she'd left no mark on him at all. He gazed in renewed amazement as she threw her head back and worked to swallow the tasty morsel.

At that moment, Jaspin knew exactly what he'd call his new friend.

A heavy thud jarred the ground, bringing him out of his reverie. Framed by the midday sun and laced with sparkling drops of ocean water, Bitequick positively glowed. Each drop of water was reflecting the varied colors of her scales and magnifying the effect until she looked like her skin was made of gemstones.

Gazing up at his dragon, he smiled. He'd never seen his winged friend looking like she did now. No matter how accustomed he seemed to become to her presence, there were still times when he would see her in a new way. He stood and put his hand gently on her rounded jaw, feeling the cold dampness of her scaled skin. He scratched at the back of her heavy jaw muscles, where they attached to her neck. Her eyes twitched in reptilian pleasure as he caressed the spot Hiccup had shown him. He was careful not to move his hands down too far toward her 'drop spot,' that place on dragon jowls that sent them crashing to the ground in unfettered ecstasy.

When she was satisfied with the attention she'd been paid by her rider, Bitequick shook her great head and sidled up to Jaspin, her way of inviting him onto her back for flight. "Sorry Quick. I've got to get this fixed first." He held up the saddle so the stirrup was visible. He had no idea if she understood or cared what he was saying, but he had his suspicions that she knew more than a lot of people believed. "I'm going to the smithy to see Hiccup about getting it fixed. I'll see you back at the house."

With a quiet burble that ended with a soft, rising trill, the Nadder rubbed her snout against his neck and ear before giving his hair a single, drippy lick. Instead of flying directly off toward their house, she wandered in the direction of a few other dragons napping in the warm noon sunshine.

* * *

The ringing clash of hammer and steel told Jaspin that there was work being done in Gobber's smithy, but the heavy, authoritative impacts told him it was the master smith himself working. With his saddle tucked under one arm, he entered the workshop. As he expected, Gobber was working the anvil. He had a long, heavy rod laying with one end in the fire, its end obviously being drawn down into a narrower diameter. The piece he was pounding on was similar; a long piece of thick, round metal he was hammering and turning repeatedly to reduce its thickness and add length.

When the metal no longer glowed as brightly, Gobber placed it back into the forge's roaring fire. He moved a step to one side and began working the bellows, causing fire and smoke to jump up like a small angry demon. He closely watched the color of the heating metal and when he was satisfied he grabbed the second rod. With a noticeable sheen of sweat on his forehead and arms, the smith began beating the metal into the shape he wanted.

Jaspin stepped further into the workshop until the smith noticed him. The man gave a small start, and then smiled. "Hoy, Jaspin. I didn't see you there." He gave a quiet chuckle and pointed to the saddle he held. "You looking for Hiccup?"

The boy nodded, awed as always by Gobber's physical presence. To him, the man represented both the way Berk had been and the way it was now. Gobber's damaged limbs were a testament to how dangerous dragons truly were. They also spoke of a Viking's willingness to overcome any hardship, to thrive even in the face of enormous change.

The smith stopped hammering for a moment, gazing curiously at the saddle in his arms. He held it up, holding the stirrup's damaged strap out. "Leather versus Nadder teeth. Teeth win."

Gobber chuckled. "So it would seem." He waved the huge hammer socketed into his arm stump as though it weighed nothing. "He's not here. If he isn't at his house working on his forge, he's likely off flying with his black beastie."

Jaspin smiled and nodded his thanks. Before he left, he pointed at the large rods. "What are you making? Are they going to be swords? Does your dragon help you make swords?" He took a step toward the forge, wanting a closer look at the work being done.

Gobber got a funny look on his face and said, "Ye know, I think Hiccup said something about having a special project of his to work on this morning. Do you have any idea what it might be?"

"Special project?" Jaspin blinked. "Really?" He shook his head. "I don't know."

Gobber placed the rod he'd been holding back into the forge to reheat. Its end had cooled while he'd been talking. He began working the bellows again. Over the roar of the furnace he shouted, "If you find out, let me know. I'm kind of curious." He turned his attention back to his work, a fiercely determined look on his slightly sooty face.

Jaspin hurried out of the smithy, bumping his saddle against a post in his distracted frame of mind. As he walked toward the north side of the village, he missed the exaggerated sigh that gusted past Gobber's lengthy mustache.

* * *

Hiccup wasn't working at his forge when Jaspin arrived. It was obvious, however, that he had been there earlier that morning. Several of his tools lay on the bench along with his leather apron. He knocked on the door several times without getting an answer. Frowning slightly at having missed his opportunity to talk to him, he wandered back into the small smithy set up next to the house. He looked around, hoping to find clues as to what the 'special project' Gobber had mentioned might be.

The only thing of interest to be found was a sketchbook. Jaspin knew Hiccup had two or three of them and that he always carried one with him. This one seemed fairly old, as the leather cover was cracked and scuffed. It even had several small burn marks, evidence that it spent at least some time with Hiccup near his forge. Wondering if perhaps the clues he sought were within its pages, he picked it up and opened it.

The first pages were filled with odd geometric patterns, measurements and notes about colors of heated metal. None of them made sense to him so he moved on. Soon he saw designs of strangely shaped weapons with unusual names. Jaspin's reading skills weren't the best, but he could make out some of them as 'flying death mace', 'skull crusher', and 'fireproof armor'. The word 'fireproof' on the last one had been crossed out and underneath the word 'flammable' had been scrawled.

As he turned the pages, he saw some of the devices Hiccup had tried out after Jaspin had been allowed outside during dragon raids. He recognized the 'multiple arrow launcher'. That one had nearly broken Hiccup's arm when he fired it. He also saw a drawing of the 'clamshell of doom'. The fish placed in the center of it had certainly attracted the dragons, but it hadn't snapped shut until Hiccup was jumping on it later, trying to figure out why it failed.

The last weapon in the journal was the 'bola cannon' which, Hiccup had later confessed, was the only design of his that had actually worked as planned. There were several pages on which its details were carefully noted. He noticed the last page dedicated to it had the word 'success' written in bold letters and underlined.

On the following pages the subject matter changed, drastically. First there were hesitant outlines of the Night Fury. They looked as if they'd been done with the subject some distance off. Further sketches had more detail, better proportions. Jaspin studied these a moment, wondering how Hiccup had felt as he drew these pictures. A flip of the page returned to devices, namely the artificial tail fin he'd concocted to allow Toothless to fly. Another page had several outlines of the saddle he'd made for riding the Fury. These came complete with measurements that Jaspin realized required fairly intimate contact to make. He smiled at the idea of Hiccup trying to measure the beasts' girth for the first time. What must Toothless have thought of that?

More pages had more designs. The elaborate control system that hooked saddle, stirrups, ropes and the leather tail fin into a single device filled several pages. Even without understanding everything he was seeing, Jaspin was impressed with how tenacious Hiccup had been in seeking a way to return the Fury to the skies.

The next page made Jaspin's breath catch in his throat. Before, each page had been crammed with drawings only as large as they needed to be. Small sketches and tiny script had allowed each page to last longer, carry more information. The pages now open had only one drawing on each.

On the left page was a beautiful and carefully done picture of Toothless' head and shoulders. The creature's expression was calm, even thoughtful if one could say such a thing about a dragon. Toothless' eyes were wide, his irises large. His flat, wide head was tilted to one side and the expressive fins that framed his head like ears were up. Below were the words, 'puzzled but patient.' He wondered how often the Fury used that expression around his rider.

The other was a detailed rendering of the dragon sleeping beneath some trees. The saddle and control rigging for the leather and iron tail fin were as studiously drawn in as the trees, rocks and grass in the background. It all showed a love of the subject Jaspin could entirely understand. He gently rubbed his fingertips over the form of the napping dragon, delighting in the details. What thrilled him even more was the evidence that someone besides him felt so strongly about their reptilian companion.

From behind him he heard a familiar gurgling croon. He turned, book in hand to face Toothless himself with Hiccup standing beside him. He hadn't heard the heavy tread of the dragon's footsteps or the quiet squeaking of the young man's metal and wood leg.

"Hey Jaspin," Hiccup said in greeting. He looked at the journal in the boy's hands but said nothing.

"Hi." A sudden, puzzling reluctance came over Jaspin. "Hiccup," he finished his greeting. He glanced over at the black dragon and almost stuttered the name. "Toothless." The Night Fury gave a soft huff of breath that sounded like an acknowledgement to Jaspin's ears.

A faint smile lifted Hiccup's lips. "Is there something I can do for you?"

It took a moment for that circle around in his brain and connect to something. "Oh, yeah!" He grinned at his forgetfulness and held up the saddle. "Bitequick nibbled a stirrup and I need it fixed before we can fly again."

His smile widening, Hiccup stepped forward and took the saddle from him. He examined the slice in the leather. "Hmm, yeah, I can fix this." He held it up to his nose and sniffed deeply. "Fish. Yup, she bit it." His brows drew down slightly. "I wonder if it's sitting against a sensitive spot?"

"I didn't see her do it, so I don't know. She doesn't avoid having it put on, so..." Jaspin shrugged.

"Well, I can take care of this for you easily. Come back tomorrow morning and it will be ready for you."

Happy to know his problem would be solved, Jaspin said, "Thanks!" He turned to head home, wondering if Bitequick would be there. Before he took two steps he halted, suddenly remembering the journal. He turned back to the blacksmith's apprentice.

"Hiccup, do you-" He looked around nervously, making sure they were alone. "Do you...love Toothless?" He held out the journal, the two portraits obvious.

The look of embarrassment on Hiccup's face as he took the book made him wish he hadn't asked. The words were out, though, so he pushed ahead. "Because I've been thinking about it and I can't think of any other way to describe how I feel about Quick." The words came out in a rush. "She's really important to me and she's really beautiful and she acts like she really cares about me and she never hurts me or scares me or anything!"

Jaspin ran out of words as well as breath to speak them. He could only wait silently as Hiccup seemed to wrestle with his answer.

Toothless stepped up next to his companion and nudged him very gently with his head. Hiccup gazed at his winged friend, his expression softening. He laid a hand on the Fury's head as the large yellowish green eyes regarded him. He gave a soft sigh and nodded.

"Yes, I would call what I feel for Toothless 'love'."

"But not like a pet, right? A cat or a sheep?" The clarification suddenly became very important to him.

"No," was the instant response. Hiccup turned to Jaspin, a slight frown on his face. "No. Like..." He faltered, unsure of his answer. Or perhaps unwilling to voice it. He looked down at the journal in his hand. "Like a... companion." He looked back up at the Night Fury. The dragon regarded his rider with an expression that almost perfectly matched the one on the page. "Like... a best friend. One who had saved my life."

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**Author's Note: This is the last chapter that will focus on backstory from the movie. It's time to move this thing forward.**


	5. Guidance

Broken

Chapter 5: Guidance

"No, no Toothless! Slow down there big guy."

Hiccup fully understood how insane it had to look when an underweight, underdeveloped beanpole like himself tried to get his dragon to exercise restraint. He fully understood that the only reason he could get his companion to halt his energetic charge up the hill was that Toothless was willing to let himself be stopped. And for that reason, Hiccup was always that much more grateful when he was able to convince the Night Fury to slow down, stop, or behave when the dragon got a bit too...frisky.

This was definitely not an occasion to be frisky. At the top of the hill stood the small house in which Freygerd lived. The village elder was a tiny, frail woman who certainly didn't need a large, powerful dragon jumping around her like a gigantic flea. And if Hiccup was going to speak to her, Toothless was going to have to behave.

He'd tried to get the dragon to stay home but failed utterly in his efforts. No bribes or threats had worked. So as he laboriously worked his way up the hill, his oak and iron limb sounding like a family of frightened field mice, he exhorted Toothless to be calm, to move slowly, to refrain from giving the elder a fright. The absolute last thing Hiccup needed was a mishap between an elderly woman and a playful dragon.

A fist-sized rock covered by last autumn's leaves caused the young man to stumble, the socket of his artificial leg twisting against the stump. Although his wound was healed and had started to develop the necessary callous to make wearing the contraption bearable, he still often felt sharp slivers of agony when he set his foot wrong.

He gasped as pain and imbalance hit him at once. Toothless, as usual, quickly assisted with the latter. For the former, he could only ease himself to the ground and gently work the padded cup back to its original position and re-tighten the leather straps that held it on. The gentle crooning sound from his companion brought his head up. He gave his best effort at a careless smile. "It's alright. Just wanted a moment to sit and... reflect. On... life. And stuff."

The wide, scaled head came down close to his aching leg. A gusting sniff told Hiccup his dragon didn't believe him at all. Toothless had developed an unusual and irritating habit of trying to detect bleeding or infection in his wound. Any time his sensitive nose caught a whiff of either, he would gently paw at the device. If Hiccup tried to ignore him and walk on, he would get pushed down. Worse, he would be HELD down until the bleeding or infection was acknowledged and dealt with.

It was almost as bad as being teased by Snotlout or Tuffnut.

Toothless seemed satisfied that his injury was in acceptable shape and sat back on his haunches. Hiccup sighed, wishing his leg was the most uncomfortable thing he would have to deal with today. He twisted a bit, looking behind him at the cottage. He was two-thirds of the way up the hill, and he could see her door was open and thin smoke was drifting from the chimney. He turned back to face his companion.

"I don't know, Toothless. I'm not really sure this is a good idea."

Yellowish green eyes regarded him patiently. When he didn't move for several minutes, the dragon moved closer and touched his forehead with his nose. A soft rumbling from the deep chest inquired. A pale skinned hand rubbed the leathery snout with affection, but no other action was forthcoming. Toothless looked up the hill at the house, then back to Hiccup. He rumbled again, but still Hiccup resisted.

Finally making the decision for his hesitant friend, the dragon began marching up the hill toward the house.

"Wait! No, wait wait wait!" Hiccup clumsily scrambled to his feet and took after his scaled friend. He soon found he didn't have to hurry. Toothless had stopped a short distance away and stood waiting for him, his goal achieved. The young man sighed at having been manipulated so easily. "Yeah, alright. You got me. I'm up." He continued his way up the hill.

Doing his best to avoid any more hidden rocks, he made it up to the top of the hill. Toothless stood beside him, regarding the house curiously. Hiccup was once again unwilling to continue. He recalled the last time he'd come to Freygerd's house alone. He'd asked her if there was any way to bring his lost mother back. That hadn't been an enjoyable encounter for either of them. Since then, he'd always respected her as the village elder, but he never found cause to seek her advice again.

Until now.

He peered into the open doorway. He saw very little within the unlit room beyond the threshold. "Hmm. I don't know, Toothless. It doesn't look like she's home." He took a step back. With his attention on the small house, he didn't notice his dragon's look of mild annoyance. He couldn't help but notice the short, barking roar that came from Toothless' throat. It wasn't loud enough to hurt his ears, but it was certainly enough to alert anyone inside the house.

"What are you doing?" he hissed. "She might be in there, sleeping. She's old, you know-"

"Hello?" The hoarse call came from inside.

"Hello!" Hiccup was forced to answer. He glared briefly at his friend, but took a step forward when he realized his presence was known.

The diminutive form that appeared in the darkened doorway did nothing to calm his nervousness. Although she was hardly a physical threat in any way, Freygerd still projected an aura of authority that could give the fiercest Viking pause. The faint scowl she displayed as she came through her door was nearly enough to make Hiccup stammer an apology and flee. A firm push from behind by Toothless' left wing prevented that.

Freygerd squinted against the bright morning sunshine, her left eye practically closing. It had stopped opening fully since a strange sickness had afflicted her some years ago. The spell had left her whole left side weak, but now only her eye remained affected.

"Hiccup?" she queried.

The young man smiled, not quite hiding his discomfort and fear. He waved to her, feeling foolish even as he did it. "Hello Freygerd. I was... I thought... how are you?"

The scowl softened into a genuine smile. "Hiccup," she said softly. "I've been waiting for you."

Confusion overwhelmed his nervousness and he tried to remember if anyone had told him that Freygerd had asked to see him. Nothing came to mind. He took some comfort in the fact that she didn't seem upset.

Her smile brightened a bit as she turned her eyes to the Night Fury. "And you, as well. Welcome, both of you." She took a step back into her house. "Please, come inside."

Thoroughly puzzled, Hiccup glanced at his companion. Had she just said she'd also been waiting for Toothless? What did that mean?

For the dragon's part, he seemed to take the invitation at face value and stepped forward, making for the door. Alarm jolted him as he grabbed one of Toothless' dorsal ridge fins and tried to keep him from bringing his considerable bulk into the small house. "Hold up there, bud. I don't think...Toothless! Stop!"

With the tip of his broad muzzle hovering over the threshold, the dragon looked over his shoulder. His expression of mild irritation didn't deter the young man from continuing to pull on his fin. He snorted, an obvious comment on Hiccup's behavior.

"I don't think you can fit in there. You'll knock stuff over or... or set something on fire. I think you should stay..." His voice faded at the look of utter disgust on his friend's scaly face. Toothless gave another snort, then folded his wings so close to his body they seemed to practically vanish. He turned his gaze back to the inside of the house. Before he stepped inside he looked around, studying the layout of the house and its contents. A slow, careful step across the threshold was followed by another and another until the Fury had completely disappeared inside.

"This morning just keeps getting stranger," Hiccup muttered to himself. "I suppose there'll be a Monstrous Nightmare dangling from the roof beams and a flock of Terrors dancing on the bed."

There were no Nightmares dangling from the beams, but there were many baskets and jars hanging from ropes instead. He found it a bit disconcerting that they were hanging at the level of his head, making it hard for him to work his way into the main room of the house. He quickly realized that they hung so low because Freygerd's small size wouldn't allow them to be placed higher. It was obvious what was inside the hanging containers. The smell of dried herbs and leaves was thick in the air. It was a rich, intoxicating scent that made Hiccup inhale deeply, almost greedily. He could also smell burnt tallow and old leather. There was an overlay of earth and wood that completed the aroma. He found it strangely comforting.

Ducking slightly, he looked to see if Toothless had done any damage to the elder's possessions. It took him several startled moments to find him within the small space. He'd laid his body along one wall, between the staircase to the tiny loft and the single small window facing west, opposite the door. The dragon's inky coloring did its usual job of blending his body into any available shadows, and only the twin orbs of yellow-green marked his head. His eyes also did nothing to hide his smug satisfaction at having proven Hiccup's concerns to be foolish.

With a look of grudging satisfaction at the Fury's good behavior and calm demeanor, he looked around for Freygerd herself. She was easier to spot, though finding her to be standing directly behind him gave him a start. He yelped and stood too fast, banging his head against one of the suspended clay jars. He grunted in pain and dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around his aching head. That proved to be unwise, as his left knee did not take kindly to such movements. The wood and metal construct that served as his left leg and foot threw him off balance and sent him lurching sideways into a woven basket that turned out to be full of salted fish. The powerful scent of cured meat filled his nose and provoked a single, gusty sneeze. In the silence that followed, he was sure he heard the muffled grunting of Toothless' laughter and a soft sigh he assumed had come from Freygerd.

"Some things never change, do they dragon rider?"

For the second time, Hiccup felt slightly disoriented by the elder's behavior. He looked up to see her standing over him, a look of gentle amusement in her eyes. Her tone, however, had been light yet respectful. And that term she used: 'dragon rider'. Somehow she made it sound as thought it were more than a casual description of an activity in which Hiccup engaged. It sounded more like a... a title.

He could only watch as she came close and motioned him to sit up. He propped himself on one elbow, his other hand pressing the spot where the jar had connected. Her soft hands gently but insistently pried his off the injury. She rubbed his scalp, moving his hair this way and that to see the skin below. She showed him her clean, dry fingers. "No bleeding." She glanced up at the offending vessel. "No broken crockery." She then cast her gaze at the basket which had simply been pushed from its spot in the floor. "No spilled food." Her eyes met his again. "Some things do change, eh?" She patted his cheek and pointed to a nearby stool. "Have a seat. I'll just be a moment."

Feeling stunned and unhappy about his ridiculous entry into her house, Hiccup pulled himself together and seated himself where she'd indicated. He rubbed his aching skull and checked his own fingers. As much as it had hurt, he'd been sure he'd broken the skin. As Freygerd had said, there was no evidence of bleeding. A furtive glance at his host showed her to be concentrating on an iron kettle hanging over the hearth. He realized belatedly that he'd just shown distrust by confirming what she'd told him. Luckily she hadn't seen.

It didn't take long for her to prepare a cup of steaming liquid and hand it to him. "That will help with the-" She touched his head, smiling. Hiccup thanked her and glanced warily at the cup as she moved back to the hearth. Healing potions were never enjoyable and any sickness or discomfort they were meant to cure was usually preferable. A cautious sniff filled his nose with a sweet minty aroma that gave him hope. He took a taste and was delighted to find his tongue agreed with his nose. He took a larger sip and tried to relax.

Freygerd moved about her cluttered home, searching the various containers until she found what she desired. She took down one of the hanging jars and withdrew a few small roots. Finally she put all her ingredients into the kettle and stirred it thoroughly. She came near Hiccup and withdrew a few pieces of salted fish from the basket he'd nearly upset. To his dismay, they too went into the kettle. As the concoction stewed, she pulled a wide, shallow bowl from its hanging spot on the wall and inspected it. A gentle tap sent whatever had collected within to the floor. She set the bowl by the hearth then poured the contents of the kettle into it. The faint aroma from the new brew reached Hiccup, making him very glad to have his mint tea rather than whatever she'd just made.

The scene that followed left Hiccup slightly disturbed, although he couldn't understand why. Freygerd took the bowl to where Toothless lay against the wall and placed it on the floor before him. He was somewhat surprised she would go to the trouble to make something for a dragon to drink. How would anyone know how to make such a thing? How could she know what would taste good to a dragon?

More surprising to him was Toothless' reaction. He lowered his snout to the bowl and gently dipped his tongue into the liquid. It was thick and coated the surface of it. He closed his mouth and seemed to relish the taste before swallowing. The quiet, contented purr he gave made his approval and gratitude quite plain. He took a second, single lap, closing his eyes for a moment as he appreciated his 'drink.'

Things took yet another odd turn as he saw Freygerd extend her hand partway to the Night Fury's head. Keeping her gaze on her draconic guest, she asked, "May I?"

Hiccup felt strangely jealous and angry. She wasn't asking Hiccup for permission, although Toothless was known to be his dragon. But then Toothless was hardly his possession, was he? So why did he feel this way? He tried to put his feelings aside as Toothless closed his eyes and lowered his head.

The instant her hand touched the warm scales of the dragon's forehead she took a quick breath and let it out as a quiet, "Oh!" A wistful smile crept over her face as she stood there, making that simplest of contact with another living being. A lump rose in Hiccup's throat as he remembered making that most vital connection with his best friend for the first time.

It had been six months since dragons had become a part of Berk. Had she never had occasion to touch one until now? Or was it only Toothless, slayer of the Red Death that she asked for the honor of such intimate contact? Hiccup heard her sigh, as though her greatest wish had just been fulfilled.

Freygerd took her hand away and quietly said, "Thank you." Toothless opened his eyes and gave a soft huff of breath, stirring her long gray hair. Her smile widened as she stepped away and took herself to a thickly padded chair. She sat rather abruptly, as though suddenly weary, but her smile remained. Finally, she glanced up at Hiccup from across the hearth.

"So, what can I do for you?"

Oddly, Hiccup realized he was unprepared for the question. He'd been faced with several unusual events within a few minutes' time and had all but forgotten why he was there. He stared blankly for a moment before finding his voice.

"Yes, well, I wanted to... uh, see you. To, ah, to talk to you. I, umm, I..." His voice faded as he struggled to recall the purpose of his visit. He looked at Toothless, hoping for some kind of support. His friend gave him what he needed without doing a thing. "Dragons!" he said suddenly. "Yes, dragons. I, uh, was wanting to ask you if, uh..."

He happened to meet Freygerd's eyes and saw faint disappointment there. It reminded him so much of the perpetual look his father had when they used to talk that it stole his voice a second time. He looked down at his cup of tea and wanted to vanish.

"To ask me what, Hiccup," came a kindly prompt.

He looked up and was again surprised, this time by the warm, honest smile on Freygerd's face as she waited for his response. Had he imagined what he'd seen? There was nothing of disappointment about her now. She seemed genuinely pleased he was there. He gave a little shake of his head, trying to get his thoughts together.

His father! Thoughts of Stoick brought back the purpose of his visit. He took another sip of his mint tea and figured the best way to phrase his concerns.

"I was hoping you could... reassure me about the presence of dragons on the island." He glanced at Toothless a moment. "I am afraid the truce that was won after the battle is going sour." He hesitated a bit, uncertain if it was wise to speak so bluntly. Freygerd gave no sign of offense, however, so he forged ahead. "I'm worried that the people of Berk haven't really accepted dragons for what they are and may... may eventually turn on them again."

At first the elder sat motionless. Her gaze was unwavering and he did his best not to flinch. Then she took a deep breath and let it go as a long sigh. She folded her hands in her lap and nodded. "Your eyes see clearly," she said quietly. "Your fears are also mine."

Hiccup felt a tiny shiver of elation at hearing such praise from so revered a person. But it didn't last long. His next question came before she could speak further. "Can you tell me why? The dragons are behaving themselves, there's been no harm done that wasn't accidental. Or easily fixed."

Freygerd leaned forward in her chair, staring at him. She seemed to want to see directly into his heart. Strangely enough, Hiccup felt quite calm under this new scrutiny. He watched her almost as intently as she did him.

"Do you remember the stories you were told when you were young? The ones about Hoskuld Blood Eye?"

Hiccup tried to recall anything he might have heard about such a person. He hadn't been terribly interested in the stories about the history of Berk. But he did remember something. "He...he was the leader of the group that came to Berk, the first settlers, wasn't he? He had one eye that was always bloodshot." He then remembered some of the other children talking about those tales. "Or that was dripping blood. Or shot out fire to burn his enemies." He shrugged. "Something like that."

A sly smile pulled at one corner of Freygerd's mouth. "Yes, something like that." She leaned back in her chair again and regarded him calmly. "Hoskuld Ulunda brought his family and several other groups from the east. They were looking for new lives, new challenges, new conquests. They stopped here because their ships were pushed ashore in a storm. Hoskuld decided it was the will of the gods that put them here and so they stayed." She turned her gaze momentarily toward Toothless. The dragon, still taking single licks of his 'drink', was watching her intently. It was as though he was listening to her tell the story.

"Then the dragons came. They swarmed out of the skies and ravaged the settlers. They didn't know how to fight them. They'd heard stories about them but they'd never seen such creatures before. They didn't understand how to keep them from killing everyone. Dragons were very hard to fight." She looked back at Hiccup. "They had come to a place they didn't figure on going, met an enemy they couldn't fight. It was a terrible time. Those first settlers weren't as unified as Berk is now. There were fights between families. Some wanted to leave, others wanted to go back, a few wanted to stay."

Freygerd shook her head, as though she were remembering those times herself and not relating the story handed down through so many generations. "Hoskuld was a good leader. He convinced most of the settlers to stay. They went to work, learning what they needed to live here. They survived. They learned, they grew, they lived." She held her hands up. "And so it has remained for generations."

A sudden knot tightened in Hiccup's stomach. "Until I changed things."

The elder regarded him with gentle amusement. "Yes Hiccup, until you changed things. Now the old way of life is gone." She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, as though brushing centuries of Viking tradition away like dust.

Hiccup couldn't stop himself. The habit was far too ingrained. "I'm sorry."

Now Freygerd frowned slightly. "Why?" She ignored his attempt to stammer out another unneeded apology. "We know how to live on Berk successfully. We're quite good at it. Food is a little harder to get right now but we can fix that. We just need more ships. We know how to build ships." She leaned forward again, her voice strengthening. "And now, because of you and your dragon, our enemies are now our friends. Dragons help protect us. They even help feed us." She paused, letting him consider her words. "Of all the things you could have done to change Berk, what you've done has turned out to be best for everyone. Vikings..." She looked significantly at Toothless. "And dragons."

Hiccup shook his head. "But Freygerd, most people don't like what I did. They still don't like dragons, they still don't trust them. Sometimes I get the feeling..." And now he paused, really hating what he had to say next. "I- I think that most people in the village would have rather I hadn't changed anything."

She nodded sadly. "That's because they forget an important detail about Hoskuld and his settlers." She let him think about that a moment, to try and work it out for himself. When he gave a small, helpless shrug, she said, "They hated it here. They'd been pushed here by a storm and didn't know if they would last through the first winter because of the dragon attacks. Fighting to survive was nothing new to them, any more than it is to us. But they didn't believe they would succeed. They didn't want the changes that had been forced on them. They thought they were bad changes."

Hiccup swallowed, unaware of this aspect of Berk's history. "What changed their minds?"

"The only thing that could. Time. Time changes one's view of the world. And when the world changes, our view must change with it." She looked at Toothless again, and the Fury met her eyes calmly. "Change always comes. No one can stop it. The gods do what they will and we must follow the course they set."

That wasn't really the answer Hiccup had been hoping for. "Is there anything I can do to help the others see that?"

Freygerd shook her head. "Only time can open their eyes. And open they must." She turned her eyes back to him. "More is coming."

Hiccup sat up straight, alarm pitching his voice up a noticeable amount. "More!"

The elder gazed at him a moment, her expression as serious as her tone. "Hiccup, your work isn't finished. This is only the start." She raised her hands again, indicating the village beyond her open door. "Even this new world will seem old before you are done changing it."

Real panic began to seep into his mind, making his hand tremble slightly. "No," he whispered. "No, no I can't." He shook his head, terrified of the very idea. "Nobody likes what I did, if I make it worse they'll kill me! They'll kill Toothless! Please!" He held out his hands, his tea spilling over the side of the cup. "Don't ask me to do anything more!"

Freygerd stared at him. She said nothing. Slowly her eyes grew cold and her expression stern. He gradually went from fear to confusion as she continued to stare silently. Eventually he wondered if he should get up and leave. He put his cup down and shifted on his seat to get up.

"I've been watching you, Haddock."

Hiccup froze, apprehension and bewilderment fighting over control of his heartbeat.

"You thought no one would notice. You thought you were the first. So clever." A hint of a smile came to her face. It was not a comforting thing. "Cleverer than most, I'll grant. But you had it easy." The smile faded. "You had help."

"I- I don't understand," he stammered. He wanted nothing more than to leave. He promised himself he would never return to Freygerd's house after this day. As he watched, she seemed to grow angry. She scowled at him from across the room. Then she stood, rather quickly for one her age. She even seemed taller than before. With rapid, determined steps she moved to stand before him, her face full of displeasure. Hiccup quailed before her.

"Do you know who I am?"

His mouth worked but he made no sound. His brain seemed to sizzle and melt before her indignation. She whirled and stalked to the furthest corner of her small cottage. She began digging through a small mound of items she'd stored there. Blankets and animal skulls went flying. A bundle of dried leaves tied with thin twine went sailing past Toothless' nose. She quickly uncovered a wooden chest and opened it. More of her possessions were tossed. She drew out of the chest some old clothes, two books, several badly rusted knives, a lock of someone's hair, some polished stones and a leather cap. All of it wound up on the floor.

"Ah!" She reached into the chest and pulled out what looked in the dim light like a bent stick. Holding it before her, she turned back towards Hiccup and advanced on him again. When she once again stood before him, he could see she held a stout but beautifully made bow. It was rather short, as though made for someone of her stature. The thickness of its limbs made it look like a fairly powerful weapon when strung. She thrust it at him as though she might hit him with it.

"I am Freygerd Sjusta, the Stone Hand. This is my ironwood bow." She stared at him a moment before dropping it into his lap. With a look of contempt she turned and walked to the open door. There she stopped, looking out at the rest of Berk.

Stunned, Hiccup had to take a moment to catch his breath. He glanced at Freygerd's silent form as she stood outlined in the morning sunshine, unable to fathom the change in her behavior. More, he could scarcely credit what lay in his lap was a real ironwood bow. Ironwood came from a far off land and was extremely rare. Archers prized it for the powerful, nearly indestructible bows that could be made from its wood. He only knew of it because Gobber had mentioned it once during training. He'd had no idea anyone in Berk owned such a weapon. It had no string and looked to be as old as Freygerd herself, yet was still as solid as its name implied. He tried to gouge the wood with a thumbnail. He couldn't make even the slightest mark.

The old woman turned from the doorway to face her guests. Her anger seemed to have vanished. To Hiccup's eyes she looked rather tired, as though her outburst had drained her badly. Her voice was even hoarser when she spoke.

"Freygerd the Stone Hand was the master hunter of Berk before Stoick's father could hold a knife. She took her ironwood bow into the woods and hunted everything that lived. She fed her family and protected her village." She took a few steps toward Hiccup, her face sometimes being hidden by hanging baskets or jars. "Even though she was a tiny, sickly child early on, she grew and fought and learned and honored the gods because that's what all Vikings did." She stood directly before him, her shoulders hunched and her expression solemn. "She hunted animals, killed enemies, killed dragons. No one could match her at the ironwood bow." Freygerd turned away, her eyes to the floor.

She stood there a moment while Hiccup tried to understand why she was talking about herself as though she were someone else. He was thoroughly confused. He watched her closely, worried about her behavior.

"In the woods, she learned many things." She reached a hand up to caress a hanging basket. "Herbs. Healing plants. Tracking." She looked up at the ceiling of her cottage. "She learned to read the weather, the seas. She even learned..." Her gaze found Hiccup again. "to see inside people's hearts. To learn their strengths and failings." A wistful smile crossed her face. "But most of all..." Now she turned her face toward the Night Fury. "she learned about dragons."

Hiccup was thunderstruck. He'd never heard any of these things about the village elder. He'd always assumed she'd simply learned a lot during her long life, thus accumulating the wisdom that others sought. He'd never imagined she'd been a hunter, let alone a killer of dragons. He was not certain how he felt about that.

Freygerd walked slowly toward Toothless, stopping a few steps away. She seemed to regard the creature with the same reverence that others accorded her. "She saw dragons often while she hunted, and sometimes got to watch them. Without even-" she held up her hand "-touching a single scale of a dragon, she learned some of their secrets. Things others never bothered to notice. Things that were useful, important. Things..." she leaned close to the Fury, who watched her calmly "that would have turned her world inside out!"

Toothless blinked, a faint croon coming from his throat. Freygerd said something else, something quieter that Hiccup couldn't hear. It seemed to him that she spoke only for the dragon's ears. Toothless reinforced that notion by suddenly looking directly at him when she leaned back and moved away. What had she said?

The old woman came back toward Hiccup, standing before him with her hand outstretched. He handed the bow back to her, and she looked down at it. For a moment she didn't move, didn't speak. Her frail, withered hand tightened on the bow.

"But she told no one. She knew no one would believe her. She didn't believe herself." There was a hint of shame in her voice. "She put down her bow and turned to healing."

Freygerd slowly turned and shuffled back to her chair. She dropped into it again, a weary look on her face. She held the bow in her lap with both hands. "She didn't do what she should have, what she knew in her heart she should have. And so Berk would suffer through two more generations of war between Vikings and dragons."

Hiccup felt excited and sick and fearful, all at the same time. It was almost the same kind of sensation when he realized nearly all their knowledge about dragons was wrong. He didn't want to interrupt her, didn't want to be disrespectful. But the words wanted out of his mouth so badly he couldn't contain them.

"What do you know? What can you tell me?"

She drew herself up a bit, her expression becoming serious once again. "Our world is now on the edge of a cliff. You pushed it there. You and he." She gave a slight tilt of her head in Toothless' direction. "You must now push it back. The world cannot stand as it is now. It will fall unless you act! You must change it! You must!"

With a mounting sense of frustration and not a little anger, Hiccup cried, "HOW!"

Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "That is what you must discover."

With a groan, Hiccup harshly slapped his palms against his temples. He barely kept himself from making a sarcastic remark. Why wouldn't she tell him what he needed to know? Why keep it from him? He tried again.

"But what am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to change?"

She regarded him a moment. "Hiccup, I'm a wise woman. I've lived a long time and learned much. And do you know what I've learned?"

A cautiously hopeful look crossed his face. "What?"

She held up a thin, crooked finger. "First, and most important, I've learned just enough to figure out I haven't learned nearly enough." He closed his eyes and groaned again, but opened them quickly at sharp exclamation that followed. "Secondly! And most important to YOU. I...haven't learned nearly as much about dragons as you have."

That took a moment to really sink in. It was quite a compliment, and one he'd never looked to get. But he quickly realized he still needed more from her.

"Freygerd, please. What must I do?"

"Discover. Learn. Understand."

With a defeated sigh, Hiccup slouched on his stool. He wouldn't get what he needed from her. "Alright."

The elder gave a scornful hiss through her teeth. When he looked up at her, the exasperation was plain on her face. "Why do you think I chose you over Astrid at the last trial between you?"

He wasn't expecting such a question, and while he'd wondered the same thing himself, he hadn't given it a whole lot of thought. He could only tell her what he'd assumed was the reason. "Because I was using the tricks I learned from Toothless to handle the dragons in the arena."

"No."

"No?"

"Because I saw you doing things in the arena that I knew meant you'd been watching dragons, as I had. You'd been learning about them. Not just how to kill them, but what kinds of things they did and why they did them." She pointed at Toothless. "I had no idea you were in contact with one of them. I just knew you had far more knowledge about them than I had. Some of the things you did I couldn't understand myself. But I knew that if anyone could understand them fully, it must be you."

Something teased Hiccup at the back of his mind. Some idea that had tried to catch his attention before but failed.

"But you don't understand them fully. You must ask more questions and find those answers. You must discover what knowledge you are lacking." She leaned back in her chair, looking down at the bow in her hands. "Vikings revere the strong. They believe that strength is in their arms and legs, their backs and hands." She looked up at Hiccup. "But you and I know better. We know that the supreme strength lies here." She pointed to her head and smiled. "Go, and use your strength."

Unable to catch the idea that had flitted through his mind and feeling a little dazed, he called his dragon. Toothless stood, taking the empty bowl in his jaws. With his wings as tightly folded as before, he carefully made his way toward the door. As he passed Freygerd in her chair, he offered her the bowl. From the doorway where he stood, Hiccup watched as she took the bowl. For a moment, they simply looked at each other.

Once more, Freygerd laid her hand gently on Toothless' great head. His eyes closed and Hiccup could hear his purring growl. Freygerd spoke to him again. Hiccup could see her lips moving.

Their goodbyes said, the Night Fury moved to the door and stepped outside. Once beyond the confines of the little cottage, Toothless stretched his wings out as far as they would go. He arched his back and stretched his legs, too. Finally he jumped up and snapped out his wings, beating them hard a few times to gain height. When he was as high as the roof of Freygerd's house, he folded his wings and landed with a heavy thud. He shook his head, folded his wings and started walking back toward their house.

Hiccup watched him for a moment, still trying to take in all that had been said that morning. He looked behind him at the small house, shook his head and finally started walking down the hill, keeping his eyes open for rocks.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission


	6. A day of nails

Broken

Chapter 6: A day of nails

Hiccup liked being a blacksmith's apprentice. He liked working with metal and fire and seeing the slow transformation of raw metal or broken scraps into useful tools. He enjoyed putting his ideas into the forge and drawing out something new and interesting. It gave him a sense of purpose and accomplishment. It occasionally even earned him some praise. It was often tedious and undeniably dangerous, sometimes painful and exhausting. But it was also rewarding and satisfying in ways he found difficult to describe.

Except on a day like this.

He'd not been in Gobber's smithy for several days. His teacher hadn't said anything so he knew there hadn't been anything happening that required his assistance. Not that there hadn't been some serious work going on. Gobber'd been in his shop for nearly a week, working on some of the metal salvaged from the training arena. Now that such a large enclosed structure was no longer needed to contain captive dragons, much of the chain and rod that had been used to construct it was being removed and reused. Hiccup had seen several lengths of thick rod taken from the training ground lying just outside the smithy. As the days passed, the rods slowly disappeared. No doubt they were being remade into more useful objects.

Standing next to Berk's master blacksmith, he eyed the pile of long, thin rods Gobber had made from those heavy shafts. Reduced from the thickness of Hiccup's wrist to the bare diameter of his smallest finger, the reclaimed metal had been worked with cunning skill and speed. But the next task would require more than one set of hands, and since Gobber didn't truly posses a full set anyway, Hiccup's help was needed. He sighed with impatience at the job they faced.

"Come on now, Hiccup. Ingifast used up every one he had for the 'Night Fury.' If he's going to build more ships, he's going to need-"

"I know, I know," the skinny young man interrupted. He scratched at the few hairs that had lately sprouted from his chin and shook his head. "I just wish you'd said something before this morning." He glanced out the large door to the rising sun. The leading edge had set the clouds afire with colors as bright as a Nadder's flame. "I was planning on taking Toothless out on an extended flight today. You know, to..." He gestured lamely in the direction of his house. "- to get away."

It was Gobber's turn to sigh. The patchwork man knew exactly what his apprentice meant and understood, better than the younger man realized. "Ah, don't fret. You know what I always say." He paused then very gently thumped Hiccup's shoulder. "Don't ye?"

Irked at being reminded of the 'learning verses' Gobber used to constantly drill into him, he glanced up at his teacher's wide face. "Yeah," he said with a twisted grin. "'Hiccup, where'd my hammer get off to?'" He put as much growling burr in his voice as he could to imitate the older man's rumbling tones, but still failed to sound anything like him.

Pleased the younger man was at least trying to make a joke of it, he smiled slightly. "Right enough," he agreed. He put his comparatively huge hand on Hiccup's shoulder. The smile faded and he put on a serious expression, though it was much softened by his affection for the lad. "What else?"

Seeing he wasn't going to get out of the work set for him that day, Hiccup gave his teacher what he wanted. "A blacksmith's work eases many minds, not just those who swing the hammer but those that don't."

Gobber gave him a larger smile. "There you go." He tilted his head and squinted at Hiccup a moment. With one finger, he lifted Hiccup's chin. "Hmm. It's getting thicker, you know. I count at least two more hairs than there were last time."

Both irritated at the teasing and secretly pleased, Hiccup twisted his head away and grumbled, "I thought we had a full day's work to do." He grabbed up several long, thin rods, laid the ends of each in the ruddy depths of the forge and swung his lean frame up over the bellows. With a hissing gust, the fire leapt hungrily at its newest meal.

It didn't take long to get the ends heated to a nice red glow. As he tried to judge when to pull some out and start work, Hiccup asked casually, "So what sizes does Ingifast need?"

"Every size we can give him," was the answer. The burly smith watched his apprentice work with a relaxed expression but a sharp eye. It always paid to keep a close watch when Hiccup was near the forge. While the young man did his best to stick to the routines Gobber had insisted on, one never knew when something very hot might move in an unexpected way and catch something flammable on fire. Like one's mustache. "We'll start with the smallest and work our way up."

"Alright." Hiccup glanced at Gobber to see if he was ready. He was.

When the master smith had first taught Hiccup to make nails, he'd called it a dance. He hadn't understood at the time, but he did now. To make the routine as efficient and productive as possible, Gobber had taught him the steps of the 'Nail Dance' over and over until he wanted to throw either himself or the smith off a tall cliff. Still, the lesson had stuck and the two could make nails with impressive speed.

First Hiccup would take nine of the thin rods and place the ends in the forge to heat. Once they were up to temperature, he would take three of them at once and lay the ends in special tapered grooves cut into the top of Gobber's anvil. The burly smith would raise his largest hammer and strike a fearsome blow, forcing the ends of the rods into sharp points. It would usually take several strikes with Hiccup rotating the rods to get the proper point on them.

Once the ends were sharp enough, Hiccup would lay the rods across the cutting wedge, a large piece of hardened iron with a good cutting edge facing straight up. A single strike from Gobber would drop all three nails at once, cutting them off from the rods. Any that didn't fall off would usually only need a good tap against the anvil to finish the job.

Next they would be placed into a 'heading mold' a block of hardened iron with three holes where the nails would be set, points inside. The wide ends would stick up above the mold a small amount. One more hard blow would flatten those ends into the mushroom shaped heads of the nails. Hiccup would turn the mold upside down over the 'nail barrel', already full of water and ready to catch their day's work. A single strike of the mold against the rim of the barrel would drop three new nails into the water to cool. Then those three rods they'd just cut would go back into the fire and the next three would come out to be struck.

To help keep the rhythm of their movements Gobber had invented a song to go with the 'dance', to keep time with the hammer blows. He'd made Hiccup learn it as well and insisted it be sung as the nails were made. He swore it was traditional and made Hiccup sing it aloud until he'd learned to keep the rhythm in his head. It was a simple tune, one that described each step of the process of making nails.

'Thunder strikes the glowing bone'

'Iron tooth that seeks a home'

'Gripping hand holds Odin's strength'

'Steaming breath from finger's length'

It hadn't taken very long for Hiccup to tire of the song, even when he was able to keep the rhythm silently in his head. Eventually, as he did with so many other things, he made improvements until the song suited him.

'Glowing eyes that know the night'

'Shrieking roar that gives them fright'

'Wide black sail will catch the wind'

'I'll ride off with my best friend'

It pleased him immensely to secretly sing about the dragon that had changed his life while he helped make nails. He wondered if Gobber still sang his original song in his head as he swung his hammer.

As often happened during their work, the morning passed quickly. The only real measures of time for them were the rate they consumed rods and the level of nails in the cooling barrel. They had both been sweating heavily and were getting hungry by the time Gobber noticed they had a visitor. The blonde Viking swung his hammer yet again to head the three nails they were working on and watched his apprentice place three new rods into the forge's red belly.

"Mind yourself, lad. We've a guest." This was Gobber's way of letting Hiccup know that something nearby might cause a distraction and thereby an accident.

Hiccup wiped a soot covered arm over his soot covered forehead and looked around before he grabbed up the next three rods to be worked. He saw Jaspin sitting on the neatly piled firewood by the large door. He waved a tired greeting to the boy and moved to give the bellow several good pulls.

"Hoy Jaspin!" the large man hollered. "What brings ye round?"

Berk's youngest dragon rider stood but didn't come closer than the threshold of the door. Everyone in the village had learned at some point in their life, usually through the means of outrageous threats of bodily harm, not to enter the work area of the smithy when hot metal was being handled. He held up the remains of a stirrup. "I've got a job for Hiccup!"

At the sound of his name, the young man turned his attention from the heating metal to the lad holding up a shredded leather strap. Realizing he'd just interrupted 'the dance', he quickly turned his eyes back to his work. He was relieved, however, when a gentle thump on his shoulder from the warm mass of Gobber's big hammer told him he could relax.

"It's noon, lad. As good a time as any for a break." Gobber grabbed the rods Hiccup had just placed in the fire and withdrew them, as well as the other six that were still being heated. He stumped over to a nearby stool, grabbed a mug holding water and began slaking his tremendous thirst.

Seeing that their work had now been halted, Jaspin entered the smithy and held up his stirrup. "She bit it clean off this time, but at least now I know why."

Hiccup followed his teacher's example and sat on an upended empty barrel that often served as a temporary prop, work area or seat according to what was needed at the moment. The young man lowered himself with a groan and a wince. His leg was obviously hurting him and Jaspin suddenly clutched the stirrup to his chest, not wanting to burden him with his demands.

Reaching down, the apprentice blacksmith pulled on two latches he'd made himself. They held his false leg on securely yet would instantly release when moved in a certain way. Two sharp clicks preceded the thump of his prosthetic hitting the floor and leaning against the barrel. The release prompted a deep, satisfied sigh from its owner. He rubbed his leg stump gently and smiled at his young friend. "So what'd you find out? Does she like the taste of the leather?"

Reassured by Hiccup's demeanor, Jaspin held out the stirrup again. "I don't think so. I think it's rubbing her scales the wrong way." He pointed to the underside of the strap that had been pressing against the Nadder's side. "I noticed the scales were slightly dull where it had been pushing on her. She doesn't like me touching that spot, either."

Hiccup ran his fingers over the roughened surface of the strap. As far as he knew, this was the only case of irritation from any saddle or tack that was used for riding a dragon. He wondered if dragons could occasionally have sensitive skin, the way people did.

"Well, if it's bothering her, how about I sew some lamb skin or fleece on the inside of the strap so it won't rub so harshly? After I replace the strap, of course." He looked up at Jaspin. "Is the other side causing her problems?"

The boy nodded. "I think so. When I took the saddle off just now, I saw a nick in the other stirrup. It's not deep enough to be a problem, but I think it's starting to bother her, too."

Hiccup looked around. "Where is the saddle now?"

"By the door."

"Hiccup! Lunch!"

His green eyes widened and his hand came up just in time to catch a large potato that had been tossed to him. He quickly dropped the tuber into his lap and just managed to snag the big hunk of hard cheese that had followed it. "Thanks!" He set the cheese in his lap next to the potato and handed the strap back to Jaspin. "I can get started on this tomorrow."

Jaspin smiled widely. "Great! Thank you!" His pressing need having been addressed, his natural curiosity immediately took over. He looked around at the materials and tools that lay scattered around the anvil and forge. "What are you making? Are you making swords?"

Hiccup chuckled. "Nope. Nails."

"How come?"

"Ingifast needs them to build more ships."

The boy's gaze moved swiftly over the whole smithy. "Where's Toothless?"

Hiccup stifled a sigh and took a bite of his cheese. Around the morsel he mumbled, "Last I saw him he was heading for the shore. Probably for a bath."

Jaspin looked at him in surprise. "He likes taking baths, too? I thought only Nadders did that."

"He gets dusty and dirty like any of us." A shrug was followed by another bite of cheese. "I guess he doesn't like it."

"Wow." The boy turned to Gobber. "Does George take baths?"

The master smith paused in tearing a hunk of bread off a loaf he'd picked up. "Eh, not that I ever noticed." He threw the bread to Hiccup who deftly caught it.

"Where is George, anyway?"

A slightly pained look passed quickly over Gobber's face. "Umm, probably off doing whatever it is the beasties do. I guess." He cast a meaningful look at Hiccup.

The young man looked thoughtful for a moment, then hissed softly. He looked at the small blister he'd gotten on one of his hands.

Jaspin noticed and pointed to the raised, reddened skin. "You got burned?"

"Yeah," Hiccup said with a touch of disgust. "Happens a lot when I forget to wear my hide gloves."

"Where are they?"

Keeping his eyes on his 'wounded' finger and trying to hide his smile, he replied, "On the anvil in my shop, where they can't do me any good."

Jaspin took a step backwards. "I can get them for you."

Looking up, Hiccup did his best to sound grateful. "Would you? That would be helpful."

"Don't worry, I'll be back in a minute!" Placing the stirrup on the saddle he'd left by the door, he took off in the direction of Hiccup's house.

The two men ate in silence for a few minutes. With crumbs liberally dusting his chin, Gobber looked aside at his apprentice. A few more crumbs flew from his lips when he spoke. "Didn't I see you wearing your gloves earlier this morning?"

Hiccup affected surprise. "Was I?" He reached under his leather apron and tugged loose the gloves he'd tucked there a few hours ago. "Oops, guess I forgot."

A wide grin split Gobber's broad face. "Sly, Hiccup. Very sly."

The young man's smile faded somewhat. "I suppose." He put the gloves back under his apron. "I feel kind of bad, lying to him like that. He doesn't deserve that." He remembered such pranks played on him when he was much younger.

"Ach, don't you worry. A barrel of mead says he forgets why he went to your shop and he winds up spending the rest of the day hunting for trolls or flittering about on that pretty little Nadder of his."

Hiccup paused in the act of taking the first bite of his potato. Had Gobber just called Jaspin's Nadder 'pretty?' To the best of his knowledge that was the first time he'd ever heard the man describe a dragon, any dragon, in such terms. He started munching his potato, deep in thought.

As predicted, Jaspin did not return. The two smiths finished their lunch and went back to work. While the rods were reheating, Gobber waved his hand at the much reduced pile of raw material. "What do ye think? Reckon we can get that finished by sun down?"

Hiccup finished strapping his artificial leg to his stump and looked up. "I suppose so. But do me a favor, will you?"

"What's that?"

"If I pass out from exhaustion, would you at least pull me out of the fire before I crisp up too badly?"

Gobber's roar of laughter filled the smithy and echoed off nearby houses. "Of course I will, lad! Stoick'd have my other leg if I didn't! And besides, I can't stand the smell of burning hair. It's horrid." He waved his hand over his nose to emphasize his statement.

The work progressed slower after their break. Hiccup was getting tired but did his best to keep up the pace. Gobber said nothing, seeing the lad's strength gradually waning. He also noted the limp that was becoming more pronounced with each step his apprentice took.

Before another hour had passed they had second visitor. Toothless came skimming up to the smithy, his scales showing nearly blue in the bright afternoon sun. The Night Fury had learned to cover long distances quickly by running with his wings spread and flapping them only hard enough to just get off the ground. It wasn't the same as flying, but it served him well. He came to a stop and settled himself just outside the door, giving his wings a sharp flick before folding them against his back. Without any concern for Gobber's potential displeasure, he walked into the building and stretched out along one wall, out of the way of the ongoing work.

The dragon wasn't wearing any of the gear he needed for flight. Although it didn't seem to bother him to wear it for long periods, it put extra wear on the equipment. Besides, he and Hiccup had gotten quite good at getting him rigged for flight and could get it on him in only a few minutes.

Gobber noticed the dragon that had entered the smithy. Looking again at his apprentice, he saw the fatigue that was slowing the lad down. He took advantage of the moment to give Hiccup a rest and gain something he needed. He tapped the narrow shoulder with his hammer again.

"Say, Hiccup, let's take a breather. Your beastie is here and he's reminded me of something I've wanted to ask you."

Hiccup blinked in surprise. He looked around and saw Toothless for the first time. "Oh, hi there big guy." He looked at the smith to make sure they were really stopping again, and then put down the rods he was holding. Trying not to let the pain in his leg betray him, he made his way to his dragon's side and laid an affectionate hand on his neck. "How're you doing there, buddy? You hungry or anything?"

With a quiet huff and a shake of his head, the Night Fury declined. He then leaned his head forward to sniff at his aching leg. He sniffed deeper, then looked up at his scrawny friend. A soft crooning voiced his concern.

Hiccup shook his head. "No, it's alright Toothless, I promise. I think I might have the clasps a little tight is all. It's sore but it's not a problem. OK?" He placed both hands under the dragon's chin and looked him full in the eyes. Whispering softly, he added, "I need to get used to working like this. It's been a long time since I put in a full day on this leg."

Toothless blinked slowly at him, seeming to think it over. He gave a quiet, muttering growl and pressed his nose gently into Hiccup's stomach. He shifted his forequarters to one side, carefully took the hem of his friend's tunic between his teeth and pulled it back toward him. Hiccup took the hint.

"Ok, ok, you're right. I could use a rest." He eased himself down until he was sitting between Toothless' forelegs, the Night Fury's broad chest and neck providing a support for his back. The dragon shifted his left foreleg until he'd slid it under Hiccup's left leg and lifted it slightly to take the pressure off of it. Hiccup's head leaned back and his left hand came up to caress the dark scales of the heavily muscled arm that held him up. He sighed happily, truly grateful to be so near his friend and to get a little rest as well.

"So what did you want to ask me?"

Gobber had a look on his face that said the man was both pleased and amused by what he saw. Then he chuckled and pulled up the stool again.

"Well, uh, it's about how you got him," and he pointed to the dragon who was pretending to be a chair, "to help you at your forge. I can't figure out how to get George to do the same thing he does." He studied Toothless a moment before adding, "To be honest I'm not even sure I can get him to breathe fire when I need him to, never mind doing it without wiping out my whole smithy by accident."

Hiccup thought back to the day he'd spent trying to get his idea across to the Fury. "Well, mostly it was a matter of getting him to understand each stage of what I needed him to do." He concentrated, recalling his first step. "I started by taking a piece of scrap metal and a lit candle out to a spot far away from any homes and showing them to him. He was paying attention, so it wasn't very hard. I held up the scrap and said, 'Metal.' Then I held up the lit candle and said, 'Fire.' I did that a few times, then I held the piece of scrap over the flame of the candle."

Gobber's eyebrows rose as he saw the direction his apprentice was going.

"I held the metal in the flame for a minute, then put the candle down. I showed him the sooty spot where I'd just heated it and said, 'Hot.' I even touched it with my finger and yelled like it had burned me." He grinned. "Actually, it did burn me a little. He sniffed it and looked at me funny. Then I touched his nose and said, 'Fire.' I touched the scrap and said, 'Metal.' After I did that a few times-"

"He understood ye?" Gobber interrupted, sounding excited.

"Um, not completely. You see, he did exactly what I asked him to do. Just not the way I had hoped." Hiccup looked up at the dragon's chin and grinned. "He inhaled deeply and blew a big blue bolt of fire directly at the scrap. I never did find it again." He rubbed Toothless' throat, getting a purring growl in response. "I had to try a few more times until he realized I needed heat, not destruction."

The master smith nodded enthusiastically. "Maybe that'd work for George. I'll have to try that."

Gobber then launched into a series of tales about his misadventures with the Boneknapper. Hiccup thought they were greatly amusing, especially the one about George gnawing on and then swallowing one of his hammers. The noise he made to imitate the sound of a large dragon regurgitating one of his tools had him clutching his sides in mirth.

Hiccup would later recall those long moments with great happiness; sitting comfortably with his best friend who was helping him feel better and talking to his mentor who told him funny stories. It became one of his most cherished memories.

Eventually they got back to their work, pledging to each other to finish the remaining rods that lay on the ground. Hiccup was sure they had enough daylight left to manage, but he wasn't so certain he had enough strength to make it. He silently promised himself he would push until he did drop from exhaustion. He also promised himself to make sure if he felt himself fading out he would step back from the forge. Gobber had several less than amusing tales about blacksmiths who had made that costly mistake.

At some point after their break, Toothless left the smithy as silently as he'd arrived. Hiccup had glanced over at the spot where his friend had been dozing and he was no longer there. He shrugged to himself, unconcerned.

It was with a tremendous sense of pride that Hiccup picked up the last two rods from the ground and put their ends in the fire. He was as tired as he could ever remember being, but he wasn't truly exhausted. He knew he would sleep well that night. After some supper, he thought.

The day had become a blur of hammer strokes and repetitive motion, hot iron and steam. He hoped Ingifast had enough nails to last him for several ships.

It wasn't until he'd been standing with three rods over the cutting wedge for nearly a minute that he realized Gobber had interrupted his own 'Nail Dance.' He looked up at his teacher, puzzled. The smith was staring out the large door and into the early evening light. Turning to see what had caught his attention, Hiccup was as surprised as the blonde Viking.

Slowly strolling between the houses of the village were Toothless and George, side by side. They were heading straight for the smithy and Hiccup would have sworn to anyone who might have asked that the dragons had a look of determination on their scaled faces.

Hiccup's confusion grew as George came right up to the door of the blacksmith's shop and hunkered down to enter. He knew that Gobber forbade the Boneknapper from coming into the smithy, mostly from a sense of self preservation. But neither man could find the wherewithal to protest.

George was a big dragon. As it was, his considerable bulk just barely fit within the building. In fact, one hind leg and his entire tail were still lying outside, beyond the threshold. Toothless slipped into the room with him and moved to one side, his gaze firmly locked on the larger beast. The Boneknapper looked around at the inside of his rider's workshop, seeming to take in the sights he'd been denied up to this point.

When his gaze crossed that of Gobber's he rumbled happily and leaned forward to press his skull-encased snout against the man's expansive middle. For his part, Berk's master smith could only lay his hand on the dragon's bony nose and mutter, "What in Midgard do ye think you're doing?"

The dragon gurgled and growled, then looked aside at Toothless. The Night Fury met the Boneknapper's eyes calmly. With a twitch of his great head, the larger dragon then turned his eyes toward the forge. His jaws opened and they heard a soft hiss that gradually built in intensity. Gobber's eyes bulged yet he didn't move. To Hiccup's complete astonishment the older man just stood there and quietly said, "Not like this."

Utter destruction didn't befall Berk's blacksmith that evening, though the results of George's issuance of dragon fire did result in a ringing shout that a third of the village heard.

"He did it! Hiccup, did ye see that? He did it!"

Gobber's soot stained face was beaming at the white hot rods that lay within the forge. Burning coals had been blown from the fire pit and Hiccup was desperately trying to stomp them out before a fire did result from the dragon's efforts. Much of the charcoal that remained in the forge had been reduced to ash, as well. But George had, in fact, done what Gobber had wanted. Mostly.

What Hiccup couldn't understand was why.

It took some time for things to settle down after George's performance. Gobber made much of his dragon's new 'blacksmithing skills.' He heaped praise, liberally interspersed with hunks of dried fish and mutton, upon his winged friend. Hiccup could only watch and wonder what had happened to the Boneknapper to allow him to copy Toothless' success in heating metal.

When the name 'Toothless' crossed Hiccup's mind, he felt a small chill up his back. He slowly turned to his dragon. Yellowish green eyes stared directly at him. The chill grew colder under the intensity of that scrutiny.

Something had happened. Between Toothless and George, something had happened. Somehow the Night Fury's knowledge about how to heat metal with his fire was transferred to the Boneknapper. But how? How could dragons communicate with each other, let alone pass complicated information between them?

There was a small itch in the back of Hiccup's mind, one that he'd been trying to understand and deal with for months. It seemed to flare up mostly when Toothless was around. Now it was a maddening presence that was trying to drive him crazy.

"I guess now I need to build a forge like yours, eh?" Gobber strolled up to Hiccup and heartily swatted him on the back. His enthusiasm nearly knocked his apprentice over, but he quickly put his hand on the lad's shoulder to steady him. "Sorry," he muttered sheepishly. "Look, it's getting late and I think we can let the rest of this go." He waved his hand up toward the mead hall. "Get some food in your belly and get some rest. I'll take care of getting these to Ingifast." He leaned on the cooling barrel after rapping it with his scarred knuckles.

"Sure, thanks," was the distracted reply. Still unable to understand what had happened, Hiccup limped his way to the door. He saw Bitequick's saddle sitting there and groaned quietly. He didn't want to think about having more work to do tomorrow.

"Hiccup!"

He looked over his shoulder at Gobber.

"Good job today." The burly Viking nodded to him. "You held up like a true blacksmith."

Tired, sore and hungry, Hiccup still managed a smile for his teacher. "Thanks. Good luck with George." He patted the Boneknapper's flank, which was still protruding from the smithy's large doorway. He leaned down to collect the saddle and the severed stirrup and began making his way home. As much as he wanted something to eat, he needed to put the saddle up at his house and dunk his head in the rain barrel. He could feel the grit in his eyes and nose.

The walk was laborious. His left leg was terribly sore and the saddle, while not heavy, was awkward to carry and didn't make the trip any easier. Toothless was walking beside him, but he didn't look at the Night Fury. Something about his dragon was making him uncomfortable and he was in no shape to figure it out.

He should have figured on his best friend pushing the matter. They'd barely gotten any distance from the shop when he felt the dragon's nose gently nudge his elbow. He looked over reflexively at Toothless and was relieved to see nothing more unusual than his reptilian counterpart trying to wedge his head under the saddle, an obvious hint that he could carry it for him.

Grateful for the assistance, Hiccup laid the leather object across his dragon's shoulders, settling it as best he could. It was made to fit the narrower frame of a Deadly Nadder and looked ridiculous laying on Toothless' back. Still holding the severed stirrup, he started walking once more.

Thoughts of Jaspin's saddle woes reminded him of his first attempt to saddle a Night Fury. He smiled to himself, thinking of the absurdity of what he'd intended to do. He'd been so caught up in designing and building his own saddle that he'd never given a thought to what a wild dragon might think of a Viking trying to climb on its back.

He remembered arriving at the cove where Toothless was still trapped, unable to fly until Hiccup figured out a way to repair his tail fin. He'd held up the saddle, grinning and feeling so very proud of his work. But then he'd been given a lesson in considering the other half of the equation of Viking plus Dragon. Toothless had simply made a game of running away from his efforts to place the saddle on his back.

The chase had lasted almost twenty minutes, and it was obvious from the Fury's attitude, he was enjoying every moment of it. When the dragon had finally tired of playing with his lean human friend, he'd allowed Hiccup to place the saddle where he needed it.

Once again enjoying a feeling of accomplishment, he'd put the saddle across the warm scaled back. Toothless had shifted around a little, trying to figure out what he was up to. The dragon had grunted strangely when he'd hooked the straps across his chest and tightened them. When he stepped back to survey his work, he noticed the dragon closely examining the leather contraption he'd wrapped around his chest, back and forelegs. Thinking about it now, Toothless hadn't seemed very happy about it and gave him a look that suggested his tolerance of Hiccup's strange devices was about to hit its limit.

"Don't worry, buddy. It'll work like a charm." His words didn't get any reaction, so he decided it was time to put the saddle to the real test.

As he approached Toothless, the dragon had looked somewhat relieved. Looking back on it, he'd probably thought Hiccup was going to remove the new contraption. Instead, he'd grabbed the saddle's grips and tried to jump up onto the beast's back.

Without ever being certain how he'd gotten there, Hiccup had next found himself on his back, staring dazedly at the sky while the Night Fury growled and snarled. He managed to roll over and look at Toothless but didn't understand what he was seeing. It was as if the dragon was having some kind of fit, clawing at himself and rolling over and over in the dirt. His wings were waving around wildly and his tail was thrashing back and forth. It took a few moments for Hiccup to realize that Toothless was trying desperately to get the saddle off any way he could. He panicked, realizing the dragon would certainly destroy all his hard work if he kept at it.

"Toothless, wait! Stop! I'll take it off! Don't ruin it!"

Still the Fury had writhed on the ground, trying to remove the device that fit so snugly that he couldn't get a single claw under a strap to remove it. Hiccup crawled as close to the beast as he dared and shouted as loudly as he could, "Stop! I'll take it off!"

Suddenly Toothless was silent, motionless and staring at him in anger. Gathering what courage he could, he stood up and approached the Fury slowly. "I'll take it off," he said again in as calm a voice as he could manage. "Maybe I can find some other way to help you fly," he muttered, more to himself than to the dragon.

Toothless' ear flaps had perked at that and he'd taken a step back from Hiccup. He stared at the young man intently, a look Hiccup might have described as 'longing' on his face. He barked a soft growl, looked up and jumped. With a few hard strokes of his wings, he'd raised himself well over Hiccup's head before he folded his wings and landed with a jarring thud. He stepped closer to the young Viking and barked his soft growl again.

Then he did something that surprised Hiccup. He lowered his body to the ground and made a beckoning motion with his head. Without any thought at the change in the dragon's attitude, Hiccup had tried again to seat himself on Toothless' back. This time the dragon allowed it and once his rider had settled himself with the rope to control the tail fin in his hand, they'd started the first of many trial flights.

Hiccup's step faltered. His memory of getting Toothless to allow him to ride on his back looked different now. The dragon's final reaction looked...deliberate. Thoughtful.

Intelligent.

Hiccup had known almost from the start that the Night Fury he'd befriended was smart for a dragon, even clever. But clever animals weren't unheard of.

Toothless, however, wasn't just smart. He wasn't just clever.

Hiccup stopped dead in his tracks, the hair on the back of his neck and arms standing up.

It couldn't be, could it? It went against everything anyone knew about dragons, including Hiccup himself. It seemed impossible. But the evidence was right there, in his memory. He'd been unable to sort it out and understand what it meant until now, but if he was right...

Feeling a little dizzy and a little sick, Hiccup once again turned slowly toward his dragon.

Toothless was staring straight at him.

"Oh, gods."

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**A/N**

**Gobber's 'you' and 'ye' are placed where I figure he might say 'you' more clearly and 'ye' when he's speaking in more of a rush.**

**I watched some Youtube videos on making nails and while the general procedure is as I described, I decided Hiccup and Gobber would have a faster, better way. And besides, this is fantasy after all.**


	7. Dragons do not weep

Broken

Chapter 7: Dragons do not weep

The failing light of dusk was stealing over the waters and making its way toward Berk. It touched the stony island's shores with its habitual slow grace. The shadows drew themselves out and reached toward the approaching night. The villagers went about settling themselves in for another cool spring night. Fires were laid, meals were cooked and children were called inside. To the eye of the casual observer, it was a calm, peaceful evening.

Hiccup noticed none of this.

He'd been feeling agitated and restless for at least an hour and it was only getting worse. As he'd strapped the flying rig onto his companion he'd found it almost impossible to concentrate. He'd nearly forgotten to fasten the main support strap across the dragon's chest before he climbed on.

Now that they were airborne it was becoming almost intolerable. Hiccup had planned on going back to the cove where he and Toothless had formed their friendship, hoping that such familiar surroundings would ease his mind. From the moment they'd left the ground, however, his distress had grown. Before they could get any further than the shoreline of Berk, Hiccup urgently directed Toothless to land. He chose one of the tall rock columns that dotted the nearby water. He didn't care which one they landed on so long as they were alone and out of sight of the village. Something told Hiccup he could tolerate no distractions right now. To his dismay, he couldn't answer his own silent question of why.

Toothless made a soft landing on the grassy surface of the tiny raised islet. A few stunted trees grew in the thin soil and Hiccup could see several gull nests lying directly on the ground. Some distant part of his mind realized that as close as this minuscule patch of ground was to his village, he was probably the first Viking to set foot directly on its flat, windblown top. There was no reason for anyone to have ever visited such an inconvenient spot of land. There were no animals to hunt on its surface and the few bird eggs that might be available weren't worth the climb.

With a precision that came of long practice, Hiccup disengaged the safety catch that locked his false left leg into the control pedal. He swung his right leg over the saddle, kicked out his left as he slid down to prevent scraping the iron construct against Toothless' flank and landed squarely on his right foot, flexing the knee to absorb the shock. He quickly turned away from his dragon and took a few steps to separate them. He was both relieved and unnerved that the Night Fury didn't follow him.

A few steps away from where he now stood, Hiccup saw a small outcropping of rocks, their tops heavily coated with gull droppings. He carefully lowered himself to sit on one of them, not caring if he soiled his trousers. He kept his gaze on the ground, unable to look directly at Toothless just yet.

His mind was whirling, trying to understand something he couldn't quite name only to turn away from it in discomfort and some faint, cold fear. He almost felt like some sickened wild beast, raging with the foaming madness that sometimes took them. His chest felt so constricted he had trouble catching his breath.

What could possibly be wrong with him? He'd been walking with Toothless, intending to go home. He'd been thinking about his dragon and some of the things he'd seen him do lately.

Freygerd's words came back to him unexpectedly. "Go, and use your strength." Meaning his mind.

Something was wrong. Specifically, something he'd thought about Toothless was wrong. The evidence was all there, right in front of him. But it danced away from the light and hid in blue-black shadows. It opened yellow-green eyes at him, showing angry slits that warned of retribution for thoughtless injustices.

With a grunt he rejected that image and tried to focus his mind. It was nearly impossible to do with his body so affected. Hiccup saw his hands were shaking and wanted to grip something with them, just to keep them steady. He balled them up into fists until his fingers hurt. Why was this happening? Why couldn't he breathe? Why did his chest hurt and his eyes blur?

Toothless. The Night Fury. It was all to do with him. The black scaled dragon was the cause, the solution, the center of every thought beating against the inside of his skull and if he didn't let them out soon he would certainly go mad. He didn't want to go mad.

Hiccup looked up. The unyielding gaze that met his was like a dagger of ice through his heart. He gasped raggedly at the sudden, unexpected pain of it.

Toothless just sat there, staring at him. Just like his father had, so many times before; radiating disappointment tempered by an exasperated affection. For several moments, Hiccup was struck motionless, unable to respond or act.

The Night Fury was his friend. This had been proven many times. He'd even saved Hiccup's life. He had nothing to fear from the dragon. So why did he now feel like he should expect Toothless to lash out at him at any moment?

Think, Hiccup! Think!

What had done this? What had set his brain on fire and made him question everything he thought he knew? Where had it started?

Hiccup closed his eyes and tried to relax. He forced himself to take deep breaths, ignoring the shuddering groan that came unwillingly from his own throat. Concentrate, he told himself. Think about what just happened.

The smithy. George. Gobber and George and the struggle to get the Boneknapper to heat metal within a forge. Toothless left, then returned.

And everything had changed. Again.

Like the sun breaking through storm clouds, it came back to him. The walk. The saddle and the memory it invoked. An idea that had slowly filled him with cold uncertainty and... fear? He remembered now.

"Toothless," he heard himself say. The dragon acknowledged his name with a slight lift of his head. That tiny movement nearly paralyzed him again. He forced himself to speak. "I need to ta-'

And there it was, the source of all the conflicting emotions that had sent him off in useless circles. He needed, desperately needed...

"I need to... talk to you."

Toothless tilted his head down slightly, still staring at him. He moved a few paces closer and sat down, his full attention on Hiccup.

The young man felt a bit giddy as the realization began to sink in. He'd had this feeling once before, but not so strong. If his suspicions were right, if his draconic friend proved his idea correct then he'd have succeeded in doing what Freygerd bade him do.

He looked directly into the Fury's eyes, those large expressive eyes and asked the most important question he could imagine. "Can you understand what I say to you?"

For a moment there was no reaction. Then Toothless slowly nodded.

A shiver ran up and down Hiccup's spine. He was right! "You can actually understand my language, the Viking's language?"

Another nod.

Incredible! His memory provided him with tidbits of past moments when Toothless had nodded to him in answer to questions or in simple agreement. He'd never realized the significance of those simple responses. He could talk to his dragon! If only...

"Wait." More of the old stories from his youth flooded his mind, magical animals and otherworldly spirits. "Can you _speak_ my language?"

Only if facial expressions counted, it turned out. The look of disdain Toothless gave him was clear enough.

"Oh." So his dragon could understand him and could express himself in a limited fashion. How did this help? It was an amazing thing to know, but it wasn't the answer to the burning in his brain. He went over the day's events in his mind again. The forge, George and Gobber, the saddle.

"George!" he exclaimed. "Can you talk to George? Can dragons talk to each other?"

Toothless hesitated, noticeably. Then he nodded once, slowly.

What did that mean? That Toothless' answer to his question could only just be qualified as a 'yes?' What did that signify?

Feeling a bit calmer, Hiccup tried to focus on the problem of getting a clearer answer from his friend. It was one of his strengths, displayed often enough in his designs. If something he'd made didn't work, he began working on _why_ it didn't work. From there he could get a better idea of what _might_ work. And again, Freygerd's words came to him: 'You must ask more questions and find those answers. You must discover what knowledge you are lacking.'

Hiccup then realized what his next question needed to be. "Can _all_ dragons talk to each other?"

This time Toothless vigorously shook his head 'no.'

Suddenly Hiccup realized how complex the situation might really be. There were many different groups beyond just 'Vikings' and 'dragons.' To fully understand the reptilian half of the equations, he needed to gain more specific knowledge.

But there was one question that he wanted answered before any others.

"Toothless, did you tell George how to do what Gobber wanted him to do with his forge?"

He was answered with a definitive nod.

Hiccup felt a thrill at having solved at least one mystery that had bothered him. He now understood what had happened at the forge earlier that day. Toothless had been in the smithy, listening to the two men talk. Gobber had mentioned his problem with the Boneknapper not being able to do what Toothless could do. The Night Fury had heard, understood and later set out to solve Gobber's problem by telling George what to do.

It made perfect sense!

No! In a flash, Hiccup realized it did _not_ make perfect sense. There was something wrong with the assumption that Toothless _could_ have talked to George. Toothless himself had just made it clear that not all dragons could talk to each other. So... which ones couldn't? And why not?

He was looking down at his hands, still not entirely comfortable with meeting his friend's eyes until he'd sorted it all out. But he knew he needed help, and the help he needed was right before him. Perhaps he could get Toothless to give him some idea of how to ask the right questions. It was worth a try. He looked up at his dragon.

"You say not all dragons can talk to each other. Can you tell me which ones can and can't?"

That only got an annoyed look for an answer.

"Uh, alright, I guess that's too vague. Ummm... oh! Of course!" He smiled at his mistake. "Are there specific breeds of dragon that can't talk to other dragons?"

That got a nod from Toothless, and the dragon seemed somewhat heartened by Hiccup's more direct question.

"Ok, uh, is there only _one_ specific breed of dragon that can't talk to other dragons?"

Another encouraging nod.

But how to figure out which breed? Hiccup went through the species he knew. It took only a moment to decide which one to mention first. "Terrible Terrors?"

Toothless brightened considerably as he nodded. Hiccup smiled. It seemed obvious now. Of all the breeds they knew, only the Terrors were smaller than sheep and generally acted the way a pet might. He congratulated himself on getting the answer right the first time.

"So, _most_ dragons can talk to each other. Terrors are the ones that can't. And _most_ dragons can understand Vikings-"

That quickly triggered a soft, barking roar and a violent shake of the head. Hiccup's mood soured slightly.

"But you said you can understand my language and that most dragons can talk to each ot"- Realization dawned yet again and he nearly despaired figuring out how to get other Vikings to understand dragons when he had so much trouble himself. He asked the next obvious question.

"Can _most_ dragons understand the Viking language?"

Toothless shook his head. That surprised him.

"Can, uh, _some_ dragons understand the Viking language?"

Another shake.

Frustrated, Hiccup muttered, "Can you just tell me how many we're talking about here?"

Once again, Toothless gave him that annoyed look.

The young man grunted, aggravated by the situation and his lack of understanding. He eyed his companion unhappily. "I could almost wish you were a giant parrot." His jibe got no reaction. He wasn't surprised, seeing as he'd heard parrots were some exotic species of talking bird from far to the south. Doubtless the Fury had never heard of them.

"Well, is it only a _few_ dragons that can understand Vikings when they talk?"

Toothless nodded. And that only added a new mystery instead of clearing one up. Why could only a few dragons understand Viking speech?

Hiccup decided to set that new problem aside and review what he'd learned so far. "So you can understand me, but most dragons can't. Dragons can talk to each other, except for Terrors."

A calm nod.

"And you can't speak like a Viking."

Toothless just stared, uninterested in statements of the obvious.

Hiccup looked out at the darkening sky, wondering what to ask next. A gurgling croon drew his gaze back to his friend. Toothless' vocalization went on for a few seconds. A new thought came to him, and his next question. "Is that what your speech sounds like?"

Toothless nodded enthusiastically, then 'spoke' a bit more. He looked directly at his rider and made small motions with his head and body, like a person would who was speaking to another.

"Is it..." It took a moment for him to frame his question, having never had to ask such a thing before. "Is your language like ours? For us, umm, well, certain sounds make certain words, and certain words make certain ideas." He thought about it a moment. "I guess that's how it works for us."

Another 'yes.'

So he could assume that certain sounds the dragon made were the names of objects around them; rock, tree, grass and such. Hiccup's eyes lit up with yet another surprising thought. "Do... do dragons have... names?"

A happier nod.

His own smile bloomed and faded in a few heartbeats. "You have your own name, don't you?" He frowned. "A better one than 'Toothless', I'm sure."

This time the dragon answered with a slow nod, followed by a slight shrug of his rounded shoulders.

Hiccup left that subject, uncomfortable with the other ideas that seemed to want to follow it. He went back to language.

"Has the dragon language ever been taught to anyone besides dragons?"

Now Toothless looked thoughtful, as though considering the idea or trying to remember. After a few moments, he shook his head while shrugging again. Hiccup took that to mean, 'Not that I know of.'

Another new spark lit his mind, a pleasant one. "Hey, could you teach me?"

The Night Fury's reaction proved that he liked that idea very much. He nodded and crooned happily. Hiccup grinned and thought of what such knowledge could do for him. He would be able to truly talk to his dragon. No! _Any_ dragon! He'd be the first Viking to use the language of the dragons!

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, who'd once dreamed of becoming a dragon slayer, who'd instead become the first dragon rider, would become the first dragon speaker!

"We could really talk!" he enthused. "We could talk and tell each other stories and..." Ever curious, the idea suddenly needed verifying. "Do dragons tell stories?"

Toothless gave another enthusiastic nod.

Enthralled with the idea, Hiccup wanted to know more. "Do you tell stories about great deeds done by dragons in the past? Like... like a history of dragons?" A softly rumbling growl and another nod were accompanied by wide irises and wriggling hindquarters. "Do you tell stories about your families?" That thought broke loose another question before his dragon could answer the last. "Do dragons _have_ families?" Toothless fairly bounced with his nodding.

The observation became obvious. He spoke it aloud without any deeper thought attached to the words. "Oh, wow, Toothless, dragons are _just_ like Vikings! Dragons are... dragons are people!"

And with those words the sun withdrew its last warming rays beneath the horizon, leaving both Berk and Hiccup's heart in darkness.

Dragons are people.

The words echoed inside his skull. A tingling pain seemed to build behind his eyes.

Dragons are... people.

The memories that had brought him such a wonderful new idea turned in old, dark directions. They showed him his own past in a new light and a new perspective. The very essence of Viking life on Berk suddenly towered over him, hurling terrible images at him. He could see the battles, the blood, the injury and death that followed every confrontation between dragon and Viking. He could hear the roars, the screams, the angry shouts. He could smell things burning as the flickering light painted the whole scene with loss and suffering.

What had they done?

He was standing. He didn't remember getting up. He didn't really remember where he was or how he got there. Other memories filled his mind; the image of his father, proudly anticipating Hiccup's own rise to the plateau of dragon slayer. The words he'd spoken roared through his head, 'Spill a Nadder's guts...mount your first Gronckle head on a spear.' His heart clenched, a tightening knot of pain in his chest that wouldn't ease. He remembered the planning, the longing, the almost overwhelming desire to see a dead dragon at his feet, brought down by his cunning and ruthlessness.

Then the worst of it. He remembered standing over the bound body of a Night Fury, certain his life was finally going the way he wanted. He remembered the knife in his hand and the words he'd spoken, the implacable will of his father and the whole village behind him as he declared, 'I'm gonna kill you, dragon. I'm gonna cut out your heart and take it to my father."

What had _he_ done?

The pain and shame of it went howling through his head until he thought he would scream. He shook his head weakly, a tiny flickering of denial, a feeble attempt to defend himself against crimes he'd not even known he was committing. A whispered 'No' slipped past his lips.

He stepped back, away from Toothless, completely unaware for the first time since his loss that one of his legs was not truly his own. He stumbled, his left foot catching on one of the rocks near the outcropping on which he'd sat. He fell. The joint where metal met flesh slammed hard against a sharp point of stone.

Pain took his vision as his head thumped backward against the ground. His mouth opened to scream as agony burst anew from the old wound. He made no sound, only a slight hissing as he fought for breath that would not come. For an instant he wondered if the sensation were similar to dying in battle.

He'd been wrong. He'd always been wrong. They all had, but him most of all. And he hated himself for it, for the self deception and willful ignorance. He'd never been a true friend to the Night Fury. The dragon hadn't been more than 'buddy', 'big guy', 'overstuffed salamander.'

Now he knew the truth in full. He almost wished he could curse Freygerd for her painfully accurate advice.

His breath came back to him first as the fierce grip of pain slowly let go of his damaged leg. Ragged gasps filled his ears as he worked to supply his starving lungs with air. He concentrated on the simple act of drawing and expelling breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to restore his vision. A few blurry blinks did indeed clear his eyes. Toothless' broad face hovered over him, his eyes full of distress.

The thoughts of what he'd done to Toothless clawed their way back to the front of his mind. He knew he couldn't contain them anymore. The words tumbled hoarsely from his mouth without him shaping them at all.

"Do you remember the night you were hit over Berk? The night you fell?"

Toothless slowly nodded.

"Do... do you know who did that to you?"

The dragon tilted his head, not seeming to understand.

"It was m-me. I w-was trying to... to kill you."

To Hiccup's dismay, the friend he'd so terribly wronged didn't seem to react. He deserved anger, rage even. He deserved to be punished. His eyes were drawn to the elaborate flying rig that the Night Fury needed to use to compensate for the damage he'd done.

"I broke you."

Once again he remembered the image of a bound dragon lying on the ground, waiting for Hiccup's knife or starvation.

"I killed you."

Another memory came to him; the dim form of a dragon tumbling helplessly in the moonlight, falling toward the ground and possibly his death.

"I tore you out of the sky," he whispered.

Early in his attempts to create a way for Toothless to regain his ability to fly, Hiccup had realized the dragon would never again fly on his own. The guilt from that was bad enough. Now that he knew his friend was in fact a person, he felt horrible. He was no longer simply discharging an obligation to a friendly beast that he'd harmed by taking responsibility for its welfare. He was actually atoning for a crime that had robbed someone of their independence. The ability to fend for oneself was highly valued in Viking culture. To thoughtlessly injure another person in a way that permanently took away that independence was nearly unforgivable. It beat at Hiccup's conscience.

"Oh gods, I'm sorry, I took everything from you." His voice was still hoarse and scratchy. "I was so stupid, I'm so sorry."

Toothless pushed his head into Hiccup's chest, warbling piteously. Hiccup wrapped his arms around the great head and just held on as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. He pressed his cheek against the warm, pebbly skin of the dragon's muzzle. He felt sick, nauseous even. He felt like the ultimate betrayer. He kept saying "I'm sorry" over and over. The Night Fury simply held still, letting him grieve the only way he could.

To Hiccup, firing that bola cannon was the worst thing he'd ever done in his life. He remembered that a Monstrous Nightmare had crushed it just moments after he'd used it and he wished desperately that it had come just a minute sooner. Even if the Nightmare had killed him then and there, it would have been better. Then Toothless would still be free, living the life he'd been meant to live.

Attacking Berk. Consorting with the other dragons that raided them. Helping feed the Red Death.

No. Even in the state he was in, Hiccup realized that if he hadn't done exactly what he'd done then all the good that had come afterward would be destroyed. The centuries old war would continue. There'd be no discoveries, no changes and no improvements. No friendship with the most amazing creature, the most amazing _being_ he'd ever known.

Finally the pain lessened. His heart eased and his breath came easier. He could see it now. For Berk, for the dragons, even for Toothless and himself, the Night Fury's freedom had to be sacrificed. It was the only way, regardless of no one involved knowing it at the time.

But it still hurt. And it still required something more from Hiccup.

He leaned back, still holding on to Toothless' wide head. The deepening darkness made his friend appear as little more than an outline in the rising moon's pale light. He looked down at the beautiful yellowish green eyes that reflected the moon's faint glow. He noticed something sparkling dimly near one of the dragon's eyes.

Hiccup hadn't realized he'd been crying. It was something he rarely did. But he could see a single tear of his that had fallen near Toothless' eye, making it look as though the dragon had been crying, too. He rubbed his own eyes with his sleeve. He then carefully and gently wiped away the tear from the Night Fury's eye, vaguely aware of how trusting the dragon was to let him do so.

Yes, Toothless trusted him. But...

"Toothless." The huge eyes blinked slowly. "Can you... can you ever forgive me?"

The dragon stared at him for several heartbeats. He slowly pulled his head back, sitting up on his haunches. Hiccup's hands slid over the warm scales until he had to put them on the ground to support his reclining body. Neither looked away.

Slowly, so as not to be misunderstood, Toothless the Night Fury raised his right forepaw and placed it lightly on Hiccup's shoulder. He dipped his head, placed his nose against his rider's chest, closed his eyes and crooned softly.

Hiccup was finally able to draw a deep, satisfying breath and release it as a sigh. His apology had been accepted. There was still an echo of pain in his heart though, for he was not entirely convinced he deserved it.

Toothless leaned back and settled on his haunches again, gazing at his human friend. He began rumbling and chuffing in his speech, then stopped. He looked down, as though annoyed with himself for expecting Hiccup to understand him. A thoughtful moment passed.

When his head came back up, he had a hopeful look in his eyes. He curled his tail around himself and placed the end on the ground beside Hiccup. The red dye used to paint the leather and iron construct looked brown in the moonlight. The white skull painted on its surface stood out brilliantly.

Toothless put his left paw down directly on the artificial tail fin and grunted softly. Then, leaning on his left foreleg, he lifted his right paw and gently pressed it against Hiccup's maimed leg. He grunted again.

Hiccup stared unhappily. He swallowed to clear the lump in his throat and muttered softly, "Yes, you're right. Fair payment."

The Night Fury snarled quietly and shook his head. He pressed again on his tail, then on Hiccup's leg. Then he leaned back and brought his two paws together. He looked expectantly at his rider.

"What? You mean... join?"

The dragon answered with a soft 'growf' and a nod. He looked down at his paws pressed together. He shook them as one and nodded again, as though satisfied. Then he separated them, holding them apart. He looked at Hiccup, then at each of his paws in turn. He shook his head violently and barked a subdued roar. He came down to all fours again and stared at Hiccup expectantly.

There was no mistaking the message. 'Together, yes. Separate, no.'

"You... you're saying..." Hiccup swallowed again, the pesky lump rising once more. "You'd rather we were together, like this?" He put one hand on the tail fin and the other on his own damaged limb. Dare he hope? "You believe what happened between us was... was worth _this?_"

A slow, solemn nod was his answer.

Something deep within Hiccup changed at that moment. An unknown, unrecognized shackle that had bound the young man's heart finally came apart. Ever since the first instant that a wild dragon had pressed its nose into his palm, it had been eroding, losing strength. The miserable constriction it had caused for so long was now gone.

For Hiccup, all he could really tell was that it felt as though some inner wound had been sitting raw for months and now was finally beginning to heal. If Toothless felt their friendship was important enough to forgive him for his ignorance, and more importantly the injury he'd caused and the resulting disability, then Hiccup could hardly go on feeling guilty over what had happened. He could finally set that part of his life in the past and consider it over and done with. His life with Toothless was the important thing now, and he could enjoy it fully.

Still sitting where he'd fallen, Hiccup gazed at his best friend. "Thank you," he said softly. "For everything."

The Night Fury warbled contentedly to him. He looked over his shoulder at the newly lit fires of Berk and motioned toward their home.

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

When Hiccup tried to stand, however, he had a problem. As soon as he shifted to move his false leg, pain shot up and down from his hips to his non-existent ankle. The blow he'd taken when he'd fallen had hurt him more than he'd realized. He loosened the clasps that held his mechanical leg in place and hissed as more pain bloomed. Setting the wood and iron limb aside, he pushed up the shortened left leg of his trousers. The stone he'd hit had left a gash just above where his leg now ended and it had bled a good bit. He could see the slightly darker stain in the fabric where it had soaked up the blood.

Toothless' nose hovered over the injury. He heard the deep sniffing as the dragon assessed the damage. "It'll be alright," he assured his companion. "Just a scratch." Toothless grumble-growled his opinion on such a statement and reached with his right forepaw to grasp his leg just above the knee.

Hiccup knew what was coming. He'd gone through it before, but it still unnerved him. Toothless began licking his wound, spreading a thin sheen of saliva over the injured flesh. Despite his serious misgivings and his failure to convince the Fury to let such small hurts heal on their own, he had to admit that the dragon's slobbery treatment did tend to stop the bleeding sooner. And to the best of his recollection, no cut so treated had ever infected.

Once Toothless was satisfied with the condition of his companion's injury, he released the leg and settled himself on the ground. When Hiccup tried to pick up his false leg to strap it back on, the dragon placed his forepaw on the device to prevent it.

"No playing now, Toothless. We can't fly down from here unless I put it back on."

The Night Fury shook his head and gently patted his abbreviated leg.

"Well, I'd like to let it rest, too. But home is over there, remember?" He pointed over the dragon's shoulder at the fires of the village. "It's only for a few minutes. I can manage."

Toothless persisted. He wriggled his body happily as if he were perfectly comfortable where he lay. He looked up at the brilliantly clear sky where no snow or rain threatened. Then he gazed at Hiccup and crooned softly, making his desire plain.

The only other objection the young man could raise was, "It's gonna be awfully chilly out here, just off the shore- hey!" The forepaw that had grasped his leg before took hold of his other leg and pulled him across the wispy grass. A quick, confusing rearrangement of limbs and wings ended with Hiccup comfortably nestled between Toothless' forelegs, the dragon lying on his side with his wings wrapped around his partner.

All at once, Hiccup felt both powerless yet protected, cocooned within the living flesh of another being in a way he'd never imagined. It was oddly intimate yet...not. When Toothless tilted his head down and rubbed his chin over the top of his head he shifted himself to avoid it. "Come on now, I'm not your pet any more than you were ever mine."

The dragon held him only loosely, allowing him to move as he wished. For a moment, Hiccup intended to bring an end to such silly behavior and get up to put his leg back on. He reconsidered as the warmth of the dragon's body soothed his. Hesitating only a moment, he slid an arm partly around the Fury's large chest and placed his cheek against the smooth scales. The powerful rhythm of the magnificent heart beneath his ear was like a lullaby, meant for him and no one else. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed himself tighter against his friend's comforting bulk.

It was new to him, and suddenly he never wanted to give up what he now had. Toothless was a friend who knew him, knew his strengths and weaknesses, had seen him in his most unguarded moments and still decided he was worthy of friendship, of protection. He'd never had anything like that in his life before and now it was undoubtedly the most important thing imaginable to his happiness.

As he lay there adjusting to the novelty of the situation and the deeper, emotional meaning behind it, he couldn't help feeling a little sad for Freygerd. He wondered if she'd had any inkling of what he had discovered. Had she ever dreamed of befriending a dragon? Had she ever imagined placing her safety in the care of a creature like Toothless?

Had she ever believed an enemy of Berk could be the only thing to bring happiness to a young man like Hiccup?

Hiccup felt himself getting drowsy, his mind wandering. Before sleep could claim him he remembered something important. He tilted his head back, trying to find the Fury's eyes. "Do you remember when we found Jaspin in my shop? He was looking at the pictures I had drawn of you."

Toothless relaxed his forelegs and wings enough to tilt his head down and catch his rider's eyes. He nodded serenely but silently.

"You understood what I told him. About how I feel about you."

His friend nodded again.

"I meant it then," he said, looking up at the calm, trusting eyes of the Night Fury. "And I mean it now."

Toothless blinked slowly, then lowered his nose to touch Hiccup's forehead. A soft crooning purr filled the tiny space between them.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**Author's note**

I feel like I should apologize for the 'emo' content of this chapter. I simply felt that this was an issue that needed to be worked out between Hiccup and Toothless and that Hiccup would not be happy with the discovery he made. At least not at first.


	8. Blind White

Broken

Chapter 8: Blind White

The winds were perfect. The warm updrafts had just enough lift that he didn't need to work hard to hold altitude and the headwind pushed against him but gently, letting him nearly hover as he checked the island below. There were enough clouds present that he had to watch were he went lest a bloom of cooler air drop him unexpectedly. It was easy enough to stay between them by watching his own shadow on the ground and moving just enough to keep it from touching the cloud shadows. He was concentrating rather hard, enough so that he didn't see the other's shadow until it broke from the cloud shadow nearest his own.

"Soft tailwinds!" came the other's greeting.

"Swift hunting!" he answered.

Their voices rolled out flat and thin in the cool damp air high over the water. Only the faint muffling of cloud mist distorted their words. It was easier to converse over flat land or closer to the water while aloft, but one couldn't always choose where one met others.

"You're new here."

"Yes."

Nothing more was said for several heartbeats.

"You're small," the other observed. He didn't respond immediately. He was patient. Eventually, when he was ready, he answered.

"Yes."

The cluster of woodcaves that marked the lair of the preytooths he sought came into view, just along the jagged shoreline. He wondered if they should still be named so, since they were no longer considered prey. But if they weren't preytooths, what were they? They weren't Kin, so they normally would have been 'prey' or 'others.' Since they'd been fierce enough to ground a mountainful of Kin over the many seasons, they'd become a whole new word. 'Tooth' had been added to designate their dangerous nature.

But now Kin were hearing words of truce from others. More surprising words like trust, nest, and food were being heard. It was hard to imagine such a complete change in preytooths; as hard to imagine as the grounding of the Great Eel. Yet its carcass lay rotting on the gray stony beach at Fire Nest. No Kin had ever looked to see such a thing in their flight.

So if preytooths had truly changed, what would they be called now?

He would know soon enough, as he intended to see for himself the source of the greatest change in his kind's history.

"Fledgling?"

He grunted in mild surprise, having forgotten the other's presence.

"No."

"You're Blind White," the other decided.

He paused again, considering.

"No." He scanned the waves below him, looking for the best target. So close to the preytooth's lair, choices were slim. Still, he spotted a waterbird that would suit his needs.

With a casual flick of his tail, he dove toward the silvery waters. He tightened his wings and slid down the edge of a cloud shadow, using the slightly cooler air to help him gain speed. As he neared the surface of the water he curled his tail and raised the clawed tips of his bright red and yellow wings. His eyes partially retracted into their sockets and he squinted against the relentless battering of the air through which he tore.

Having arced from a full dive to a close-wing skim over the water, he swiftly closed on his target. His approach was precise, his body silent. When there was less than a breath between him and the waterbird he flared his wings and pivoted his body to throw his large taloned feet forward. The waterbird didn't even squawk as he slammed into it, all the power of his speed focused into his legs and claws. Water exploded up around his body but he had already moved on, swinging his legs from the hips as he touched the ocean's surface. Forgetting to pivot could injure him, breaking even his sturdy leg bones.

Once the kill was complete and he felt the pulpy mess that had been the waterbird trapped between his talons, he began pumping for height. He was young and strong and quickly worked his way back up to where the other wheeled placidly on an updraft.

He approached the other from the front at a non-confrontational angle and displayed the bloody mess of feathers and entrails.

"My flight name is Crush Claw."

Feeling rather proud of his flawless display he rolled briefly upside down. At the same moment he casually flipped the dead waterbird toward his open mouth. He caught it squarely but the effect was ruined by the small gobbet of bloody feathers that went directly into his left nostril.

He was later glad that it hadn't been worse, but the undignified scramble to right himself as he snorted out the feathers certainly didn't leave him radiating confidence. He sneezed once, trying very hard not to vent any flame in the process and not entirely succeeding. The stench of scorched feathers only compounded the misery of an itching nose.

By the time he recovered he realized he'd dropped several lengths in height from where the other glided, watching in mild amusement. No comment was made about his momentary clumsiness and for that he was grateful. But the next words spoken irked him as much as laughter would have.

"Your egg name was Blind White."

He had to wait a mouthful of heartbeats before he could speak calmly.

"Yes."

One's egg name was given by one's sire or dam, depending on which was present at one's hatching. His egg name had been given to him by his dam because of the unusual condition of his eyes upon hatching. The protective film that covers the eyes of all hatchlings is usually somewhat cloudy and clears within a day or two. The film on his eyes has been a solid, ghostly white that kept him blind for nearly two weeks. Both his parents had been relieved when his eyes eventually cleared, leaving him with normal eyesight.

Because of his condition, Blind White's physical development had been hindered in the first month of his life. It wasn't for lack of care on his parent's part. It was that his brother and two sisters would often pounce on the food dropped into the nest before he could locate it.

Once he gained his eyesight, Blind White fought ferociously for his share of the food. As a result he was able to make up most of the growth he'd lost during his blindness. But by the time he left the nest, last of the four, he knew he would never gain his full size as an adult. He was perhaps one quarter smaller than other Kin his age. Eventually he decided this was not the disadvantage it seemed to be. What he'd lost in size he gained in patience and determination. Those two traits he'd been forced to learn while sightless held him in good stead later when he decided to leave and find his flight name.

A dragon's flight name was usually a short descriptive of the individual's most favored trait. In this way he or she might advertise to potential mates who were looking for such traits. While he was learning from his parents the skills he'd need to feed himself, he discovered his smaller size allowed him to hunt prey in a unique way, as he'd just shown the other.

"Why are you here?"

He watched the preytooths he could see below him scurry between their woodcaves and all around their flat, open nesting grounds.

He could not determine what most of them were doing except the few who stood on stony outcroppings that lay just above the water. He could easily make out the tempting silver shapes of fish lying near those preytooths. Those were obviously gathering food for their young. If they had been hunting for themselves, they would be eating them as they caught them. He wondered how such clumsy creatures could catch fish when they didn't seem to ever enter the water

"I wanted to see the preytooths," he eventually replied.

"Do you want to nest with them?"

He finally took a moment to study the other. It was a female brightscale with a typical spattering of vivid colors across her hide. She seemed healthy and flew steady in the gentle updraft. He was certain he hadn't met her before.

"I don't know."

"I do."

The wind shifted slightly and the other drifted cautiously nearer to him. He watched her closely.

He wondered if perhaps she was in season, but a glance showed the scales around her eyes and muzzle were no shinier than was normal. He supposed she might be offering a Kin truce, since she'd mentioned she was looking to nest in the area he was exploring.

He realized she was looking him over and he instinctively flared his wings to show their span. She lifted over him, then across to his left side, under and around back to the right of him in a slow, casual circuit.

"You're really small."

Despite having heard those words many times before he'd left Fire Nest, it still bothered him that this other would focus so sharply on his size. He'd hoped he might leave such comments behind when he left to find the preytooths. His skin began to tingle and he decided his instinctive reaction might change her view of him. He felt the thin, oily substance of his skin fire leaking out from under the scales of his body. Once enough of it contacted the air it ignited. The effect was not what he'd wanted, though. The ferocity of skin fire was lessened while flying, especially in damp air. It burst into flames first around his head and neck, but he could feel it flickering out in many places across his body in the wet wind. He concentrated, willing his body to respond. He'd never tried using his skin fire like this before and he suddenly worried it wouldn't work.

It was most satisfying to feel his body respond the way he wanted. A full, thick coat of flames wreathed his long body, burning hot and clean. It felt good and it pleased him. He roared to the other, "I AM BIG ENOUGH!"

He snapped his wings hard and shot straight up. He willed his skin fire to stop just as he reached the apex of his leap and curled his body over on itself. As he dove back down the few lengths to where the other hovered, he left his last few tendrils of flame above him like a shed skin. His wings flared violently out to stop his descent as he came even with her, to hover beside her as if he'd never moved.

She eyed him critically a few moments before she gave a quiet chirp of agreement. She shook her heavy head and said, "Yes, you are."

They continued to soar in silence a short time before he decided he wanted a better look at the preytooths. He angled his wings to let the air slip by them easier and slowly made his way lower. The brightscale stayed with him.

From a lesser height he could see more of the preytooth's nest and the activity within. He could also see Kin, but not nearly as many as he'd expected. Mostly he saw flits, bumbling around the tops of the woodcaves and being the general nuisance flits usually were. He saw a single splitneck sleeping in a sunny spot and two stonebellies, one of which had a preytooth sitting on top of it while it flew away toward the nearby woods. He was shocked.

"Didn't you know?" The other chittered in amusement. "That's part of nesting here."

"No one told..." He snapped his jaws shut. A tiny puff of flame escaped his muzzle and the smoke of it dispersed before it drifted farther than his neck. "I heard of nesting and feeding. But not..."

"New hatched riverbacks do that, you know." She tipped her snout in the direction the stonebelly had gone with the preytooth on its back. "They stay on their dam's back until their eyes clear."

"I'm not a riverback!"

The brightscale dipped her head and blinked slowly in mild apology. "I know."

"It looks... wrong." He snorted, uncomfortable with the idea. "Sitting on us like we're rocks."

"It's not really part of nesting here," she added contritely. "I was word twisting. You can nest here without any preytooths touching you."

He was relieved. Something about the idea of having a preytooth latched onto his back made his scales quiver. "Good. But why would any Kin let a preytooth do that?"

"It's part of bonding."

Taken aback, he stopped working to stay aloft and started to sink. A moment later he drew himself back up to her. "More word twisting?"

"No. It's heart truth."

He felt more and more disturbed by this brightscale. He was starting to wonder if she was ill or damaged inside. "Bonding." His gruff growl betrayed his disbelief. "With preytooths." Despite his doubts, her words were an echo of some of the things he'd heard at Fire Nest. He hadn't believed it then, either.

"Look at them with clear eyes," she urged.

With a rumbling gust of a sigh that pushed a small plume of smoke from his nostrils, he focused his sight on the few preytooths he could see.

"They're tiny, aren't they?"

He could see a few of them close to the Kin. Their size in comparison was laughable. But only if one didn't know of their fierce reputation.

"Yes."

"No wings, no tails."

That was something else that bothered him. Preytooths stood longways to the ground, forever looking like they should fall over. When they moved it was with this strange falling/flailing motion that looked ridiculous. How did they even do that?

"No fire."

That almost didn't count, in his mind. Preytooths had plenty of other ways to draw blood than fire. Preytooths would crush cut smash twist if you didn't keep your eyes on them. He'd heard the stories many times.

"No flight."

That thought sank like a stone in deep water. No flight! To never rub your back against the misty heights, never see the world as a tiny speck. To never hear the wind shriek at your passing or play hide-in-clouds.

How could they live like that?

"When a preytooth bonds with Kin, the most important thing it wants to do is fly with us."

When the idea was spoken so, it made a kind of scary sense.

"They can't grow wings or tails. So we share ours. And we give them the skies for a little time."

He heard the wistful tone in her words, saw the muted anguish in her eyes.

"And they love us for it. So... bonding."

Her words disturbed him. Love. Bonding. How could any Kin use such words on preytooths? They were squat, fuzzy eels with sharp metal always nearby. They grounded Kin with a ferocious glee that chilled the liver. How could she speak so?

He had to find out. That was the reason he'd come from Fire Nest in the first place. Had the preytooths really changed? Could he nest here? Would he want to bond to one of them? He glanced at the brightscale.

"You are bonded to a preytooth?"

Now her misery became obvious. "No. None of them will approach me."

He set aside his suspicion that such aloof behavior on the preytooth's part was to be desired. "Why not?"

"I don't know," she conceded. "When the Great Eel was grounded, it was different. All the preytooths would approach Kin. There was trust. There was flying and nesting."

She glided silently for many moments.

"Then it changed. Now only a few of them will go near Kin, and most of them are already nesting with others."

"They don't attack Kin they don't know, though?"

The brightscale gave a squawk of denial. "They don't attack any Kin." She paused again. "You can display for them if you want. Your best bonding display might get you a fish, but that's all. Their eyes won't see you."

He had no intention of offering a bonding display, but he still wanted to know more about them. The brightscale's claim that they didn't attack any Kin gave him just enough heat in his liver to try landing among them. He chose a place outside their nest yet near enough to watch and made a cautious descent. Keeping a close lookout for any preytooths that might be lurking nearby, he settled to the ground a dozen leaps from the nearest woodcave. A few moments later, the brightscale touched ground directly in front of him.

"What do you intend?" she asked.

He was crouching on hinds and wing claws, ready to leap into flight if anything challenged him, but her rudeness set him off balance. She was obviously many seasons past her first breeding cycle, but she acted like a fledgling looking to interfere in his hunt. And she had yet to offer her flight name. In spite of his being very much her junior, he felt compelled to raise himself to his hinds and spread his wings for balance. Imitating the way his own sire had chastised him on occasion, he hissed at her. The essence of the message was clear: 'Where are your manners?'

She froze, surprised by his reaction. Her posture spoke of both nervousness and embarrassment. Then she twitched her head slightly and shifted herself until she was facing him directly. With him in her blind spot, she extended her wings and tipped her head down until the point of her muzzle was facing the ground.

"My flight name is Swimmer." She'd chosen that name because she'd learned to dive deep into the water to go after the tastier fish than those that swam near the surface. Her dam had taken her flight name for the same talent, but had chosen 'Water Walker' instead. "I intend no insult but I must question your hunt." To question another's hunt could be taken as doubt in the hunter's ability, but her words and her posture spoke of the intention to offer advice or a warning of dangerous prey.

Crush Claw was more than willing to listen to an older Kin's words, especially concerning the preytooths he wanted to see. He dropped himself back to the ground and uttered a soft growl of acceptance. Swimmer relaxed slightly as well. Before she could speak another word, however, they heard a high, raspy squawk from behind her.

A preytooth no larger than Crush Claw's head had come up behind the brightscale and was chattering at the pair of them. Swimmer had stepped back to see the source of the noise. The instant she did she chirped an imperative 'Fledgling!' The instinctive reaction took hold immediately and they both held perfectly still.

"A preytooth fledgling?" he asked.

She turned an eye toward him and said in a low but commanding rumble, "There is Kin truce here. Do nothing to damage it!"

Instantly their positions were reversed. Crush Claw was the other and she the elder. He had only a moment to wonder if the 'it' she didn't want damaged was the Kin truce or the fledgling. To protect both he took her advice and locked his joints in case the fledgling blundered into him. Even as he did it he could see it was unnecessary. The preytooth fledgling was so little it couldn't possibly knock him over with its uncoordinated movements. Turning his head slightly to keep it in sight, he studied his first preytooth up close.

Several things struck Crush Claw at once. The first was the utter lack of fear the fledgling displayed as it approached them. It didn't wait for acknowledgment or permission; it simply used that fall/flail motion to carry it within touching distance of them. He also noticed it was covered with an odd assortment of animal skins and fibrous sheathing that concealed all but its foreclaws and head. The exposed, hairless flesh of it exuded an oily smell which seemed to have permeated its coverings. It was also making a lot of noise. It seemed to gibber and squeal at them as if it believed they could understand its intentions.

From such close range he could see the preytooths most fearsome weapon, its grasping foreclaws. Those incredibly dexterous parts allowed them to fashion killing metal objects and use those objects with devastating results. It could use them to make woodcaves and the woodfish they rode on the waters. He'd heard stories of climbing and ensnaring and other things that one could scarcely believe. Seeing them now, he could understand his dam's wisdom when she'd told him, "A clawless preytooth is a dead preytooth."

Crush Claw grunted in dismay as the fledgling placed its foreclaws on the tip of his snout. The oily smell intensified, but not to the point it was unbearable. He was quite surprised by how warm the skin of its foreclaws felt against his. Their eyes met and the fledgling started making a soft, low howling sound. He couldn't tell if it was a happy sound or not. It wasn't acting like a creature in distress.

"I think it likes you," Swimmer noted.

Before he could offer an opinion of such a statement they heard a new sound. One of the adult preytooths had approached from the same direction as the fledgling. It was running toward them. Seeing a preytooth fall/flail as fast as it could gave him reason to wonder why they didn't constantly fall down.

The adult stopped when it realized its offspring was near two dragons. It seemed reluctant to get any closer and made unhappy sounds and motioned the fledgling to return. Without taking its foreclaws off Crush Claw's nose, it looked over its shoulder and yammered back to what he assumed was its parent. There seemed to be a difference of opinion between them.

Eventually the parent convinced its wayward youngster to come back to it. As it walked away, the fledgling looked back over its shoulder at the two dragons and thrashed its upper limbs. It reminded him of a young dragon testing its wings on the edge of the nest, looking to make its first flight.

When the preytooths were gone both dragons relaxed. Crush Claw wasn't entirely certain how he felt about the encounter. It hadn't inspired any feelings of love or bonding but it did prove that the preytooths were showing an amount of tolerance for Kin that was truly surprising. He gazed at the woodcaves. He wanted to know more.

"What will they do if I go into their nest?" To enter the nest of an enemy was to ask for a fight. It chilled his liver to think of what could happen if the preytooths took exception to his presence.

"Nothing." The brightscale ruffled her wings to emphasize her next words. "Move slowly, touch nothing. Stand still if any approach you. And do not fire your skin while you are there. You've never seen their woodcaves burn. They catch easily."

He gazed at her a moment. He suddenly wondered how far through her life cycle she might be. But that was not what he wanted to ask her. "Will you teach me the winds here?"

His question seemed to catch her off guard. Nevertheless she answered, "Yes."

So they walked into the preytooth nest. Walking was something Kin hardly ever did except around fledglings. It made sense, though, when Swimmer offered her opinion that the preytooths felt less threatened by that which stayed on the ground where they could reach it. Privately, Crush Claw intended to stay alert and ready to take to the air in an instant. He would not allow the preytooths to trick him.

The preytooth nest was both fascinating and boring. Since he was not yet of breeding age he had never gone raiding with the other adults while the Great Eel was still alive. He'd heard stories about how deceptively calm the nest would seem until the preytooths caught the scent of Kin. Then they would spread across the nest like fire in dry grass and ground any Kin they could get close to. As he carefully stepped between the woodcaves he wondered what it was truly like to see them defending their nest. What did it sound like? Would he have had enough heat in his liver to fight them?

The smell of the nest was unlike anything he'd ever known. He'd heard things about that as well, but it wasn't the same as taking the scents in for himself. He could taste many things he knew in the air; burning wood, thawing earth, the muted tang of nearby bleaters and the sharper whiff of their dung. He could even pick out the bright, offensive stench of metal objects around him. But there were other things he could detect that he didn't recognize. There was something that smelled like heated grass coming from one woodcave, and another that gave an odor which reminded him of rotting fruit. He could detect the presence of meat that had dried out without rotting but it was combined with the smell of the sea. Yet the meat didn't smell like fish, it smelled like bleater flesh.

And when he thought of fish, he quickly realized he'd been smelling fish that had obviously been laying out for only a short time. The wind was bringing it to him from his right yet as the wind shifted slightly the smell did not. Was the fish moving?

Crush Claw was startled into stillness as a preytooth came around a woodcave with a small object that smelled of dried leaves and fish. It caught sight of him and stopped moving for a moment. Despite his curiosity, despite his fear and despite all Swimmer had told him, he had no idea what to do at that moment. He could only stare stupidly at the preytooth and watch it as it studied him.

The preytooth was covered as the others had been, with both animal skins and fibrous sheathing. Its face was free of the hair that some of them wore. He wondered if the face hair meant something specific to them or if it was no more important than the colors of one's scales.

It took a single step closer to him without getting close enough to attack him. He could see the object in its foreclaws was shaped specifically to hold things, in this case fish. It grabbed one of the fish it carried and made noises like the fledgling had. It waved the fish enticingly, then gave it a gentle toss toward him. Without thinking, he opened his jaws and caught the offering easily. When he chewed it the cold slime of its outside mixed with the warm blood of its inside. The taste was as good as anything he'd caught himself.

As the morsel bathed his tongue with juices and slid down his throat, he started thrumming. Momentary happiness filled his mind and he relaxed without meaning to. Seconds later, he realized what had happened and looked around, perplexed and somewhat embarrassed. The preytooth had already wandered off, heading for its woodcave. Swimmer stood nearby, watching with amused interest.

"What-" He watched as the preytooth pushed against a part of its woodcave and the side of it moved inwards. It went inside and the moving portion of the woodcave returned to its place. He'd never heard any Kin describe how preytooths got in and out of their woodcaves. Now he had seen it yet he didn't understand. He left that mystery for the moment and turned back to Swimmer. "Why did it do that?"

The brightscale gave a confused squawk and folded her legs to sit directly on the ground. "I don't know. I've never seen one offer food without a display first. And it didn't try to bond with you, either."

Crush Claw's liver shriveled a bit. "Did it think I'm a fledgling? Because of my size?"

Swimmer didn't answer.

He lowered himself to the ground as she had and thought for a moment. There was no doubt the preytooths had changed. They hadn't attacked him when the fledgling got close enough to touch his snout. One had given him food for no understandable reason. He could see a few other preytooths moving around the nest. More than one of them looked his way, only to ignore his presence.

The preytooths may have changed, but even Kin as young as he was knew that an enemy that doesn't attack is not an enemy to be trusted. He needed to know more.

"Why do you want to nest with the preytooths?"

This time it was the brightscale who paused in thought. She looked around the flat, open nest for some moments before answering. "The Kin truce is very important. I want to be here to help protect it."

"How can you do that?"

Swimmer gave a fluttering growl of irritation. "I told you. By bonding, like Kin do."

That idea still did not sit well with him. "Preytooths are not Kin!"

"No, they're not." She stuck her head under one wing and rubbed a few dull scales with her nose, giving herself a moment to think. She turned back to him. "But they are still very much like us."

That was another idea Crush Claw didn't care for. "How can they be like us?"

Before she could answer, another preytooth, one with face hair, came around the woodcave and stopped moving. It was obviously surprised to see them sitting there, judging by the way it came to such an abrupt halt. It reached one foreclaw down to its middle to grasp something that apparently was not there. It looked down at its empty foreclaw, then back at them before slowly backing away.

Swimmer fixed him with a bright yellow eye. "That preytooth just answered you. It made a threat sign before it left."

"Threat sign?" he echoed, alarmed.

"Most preytooths carry sharp metal around their middles. It must have lost what it was reaching for. Yet the one we met before it gave you food." She gave a flick of her snout toward the center of the nest. "I've been watching this nest all through the cold season. I've noticed not all preytooths are the same, just like not all Kin are the same. Some of them are territorial, some are not. Some of them are aggressive, some are not." She paused a moment before she added, "It takes many scales to make a skin."

Crush Claw would never have thought to hear that bit of draconic wisdom applied to their old enemies, but he had to admit that it felt like heart truth.

"How can I tell if a preytooth might be willing to let me nest with it?"

The brightscale answered with a light chittering sound. "The same way you do with Kin. By scent."

"They scent the same way Kin do?" That seemed too incredible to believe.

"No, not the same way. But like enough to work. You have to learn the softer scents, but the strong ones are the same for Kin and preytooth alike."

He looked around the nest, at the woodcaves and the preytooths and the bleaters off in a distant field. He'd learned much on the first day of his visit. But he still didn't know if nesting with preytooths was a good idea. He supposed the best way to decide would be to display for some and see how they reacted.

Another preytooth with face hair came around the woodcave near them and stopped. Crush Claw stood up and took a step forward. Before he could even begin his display Swimmer hissed at him and swiped at his flanks with her wings. He jumped back, confused. She squawked harshly at him as though he had taken her kill and charged him. He reared up and spread his wings, a universal threat display. Still she growled and spat at him until suddenly she stopped. Then she lowered herself to the ground and touched the grass with her nose. She uttered quiet chirps of apology over and over until he calmed down.

Once he subsided Swimmer looked at him. There was a trace of fear in her scent and her eyes.

"I am sorry, but I had no choice. The one you chose for your display is unsuited for Kin."

Crush Claw thought about that for a moment. While she seemed to mean well, he wasn't sure he understood her words. "Why is it unsuited for Kin?"

Swimmer looked around carefully, making sure the preytooth had truly left them. She turned back to him.

"We call that one Iceblood. His liver is full of snow and his eyes are full of blood." She preened the dull scales on her wing again to calm herself. "He stinks of anger and malice. He has tried to nest with several Kin but none with stay near him. Not even those looking for a place to nest."

He was confused. She had said that none of the preytooths would give him more than a fish if he displayed for them. And yet she also said that specific preytooth had tried to nest with several other Kin. Could a preytooth want to nest with something it hated? It made no sense. He kept his doubts to himself, however. If he was to learn more about preytooths, perhaps he might start with one that was easy to approach. Swimmer said they didn't attack Kin anymore, and no preytooth was a serious match for him when his flame skin was roaring like his voice.

Feeling more confident in his choice in coming to the preytooth's nest, he gave a courteous dip of his head. "Thank you for teaching me the winds. I believe I will fly here for a time."

Swimmer chirped contentedly, obviously happy she had helped. "Swift hunting, Blind White!"

He glared at her until he realized she was word twisting again. He tucked his muzzle a moment to show he understood she was teasing, then answered, "My flight name is Crush Claw. I AM BIG ENOUGH!" Then he launched himself energetically into the air, looking for a preytooth who might like his display.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

* * *

**A/N**

I apologize for how long this chapter took to complete. I've discovered I don't really like writing a story the way I'm doing this one. Every multi-chaptered story I've done before I did multiple drafts and edited many times with enough time between edits to come back with fresh eyes. When it was ready, I posted it as a complete story. By posting each chapter as I complete it, I lock in possible errors and lock out possible improvements I may not think until later. Because of this, I'm having to do a lot more thinking about each chapter to make sure it's really ready for submission. I also spend less time working on individual chapters and more on the overall plot arc. It really can't be helped.

What's worse is there are other factors stealing time from my days and keeping me from getting as much writing done as I would like. I won't bore you with details, but my job is one culprit and the current weather is another.

I also hope I didn't distract readers by changing the POV as I did. There are things that will happen in this story that may not come to the notice of the human characters and as such I need another way to tell those parts of the story. I don't have a problem with presenting the dragon's part of this story, but to do it right I felt I had to limit how their part is told. Those limits would have to be placed mostly on language, social interaction and motivations. I don't want the dragons to become little more than strangely shaped humans.

I figure the most distracting thing about presenting their side of the story would be how I have them see and relate to their world, especially language. To help a bit with that, here's an explanation of some of the things I used that may have confused some folks.

**Dragon language** – Dragons are creatures with no technology and very little understanding of human behavior. They look at the world in very simple terms. This is why I used words like 'woodcaves', to reflect the limits of their understanding of the Viking way of life and the objects they use.

**Liver vs. heart - **Like early humans, dragons have only a limited understanding of the internal functioning of their own bodies. Long ago, humans equated the heart as being the center of human intellect and emotion while the brain was essentially ignored. The idea that the liver is the equivalent of the heart is something I borrowed from the Klingons of Star Trek: Next Generation. It occurred to me that dragons might understand that the liver, being a large organ full of blood, might be the source of their own internal power. Without any dragon 'doctors' or 'scientists' the knowledge they have of what organ does what would likely come from the observation of sick or wounded individuals, so a lot of flawed beliefs are inevitable.

**Kin vs. Others** - I decided that dragons would have a fairly limited grouping system for dealing with themselves and those that are not themselves. The term 'Kin' is actually flexible. It may seem like I used it incorrectly at some points in this chapter, but there is method here. When comparing humans (preytooths) and dragons, all dragons are 'Kin.' When comparing only dragons, those individuals outside one's species are 'others' while those of one's own species are 'Kin.' When comparing dragons within one's own species, those outside one's family unit are 'others' while those related are 'Kin.'

I really did want this to reflect a certain amount of creativity on my part, but I fear I may have inadvertently copied some other author's idea or work. The names the dragons apply to individual species are one area I may have accidentally plagiarized, but I promise it was never my intent.

One other thing I'd like to say. At the start of this I expected the chapter count of this work to range from 8 to 10 chapters and said so in my first submission. It's obvious to me now that 18 to 20 is more realistic.

Thank you all for reading!


	9. Puzzles

.

Broken

Chapter 9: Puzzles

Building barrels was the hardest part of making ale, but Fishleg's father insisted they make their own. Ever since he and Ingifast had argued over the quality of the barrels the shipwright had made, long before Fishlegs had been born, his father had refused to use any barrels but those they made themselves. This currently meant ones Fishlegs had made.

Fishlegs didn't mind spending long hours making barrels for his family's ale. He was actually pretty good at it. Especially the hammering. But his eye for a well built barrel had turned out to be of immense value to his family and for that he was glad. Even if being a cooper hadn't been his first choice of occupations.

He had joined the dragon training class because he hadn't been entirely thrilled with the prospect of making ale for the rest of his life. He'd done it knowing his physique was as much of a hindrance in combat as it was a benefit. His father had been as reluctant to let him train as Stoick had been to let Hiccup. Fishlegs believed his father had agreed only because he was sure his large bookish son would not succeed. That hadn't really bothered him, since he was not the type to dwell on the negative aspects of life. And in the end, being a cooper and a brewer and a dragon rider was a good mix of what he wanted to do and what he needed to do.

The best part of being a cooper was using his hands to do the work while his mind was occupied with other things. Usually those other things were dragons. And often one specific dragon: Thunderguts, his Gronckle.

His fascination with dragons had been once been fed with books. One book, specifically, but there were a few others around Berk that he'd been able to get his hands on. Now he was able to study his subject up close. Studying dragons up close, while initially intimidating, was definitely preferable. He'd learned all sorts of things about them, all first hand. Best of all, what he learned was going to be used in a new dragon manual being written by Hiccup. He was helping teach future Vikings all about the care and training of dragons.

The new way of Viking life was most agreeable to him. The raids had ended, the fighting had stopped and life in the village was slowly starting to improve. Best of all he had his own dragon to study. He liked to watch it eat. He loved to watch it interact with other dragons. He even enjoyed watching it sleep. This was a good thing because Gronckles slept a lot.

That had actually been the first thing Fishlegs noticed about Thunderguts. He'd thought it strange that she spent most of her days passed out on the ground, snoring with a weird buzzing hum. At first he thought maybe she'd been stressed during the battle on Red Death Island and was trying to recover her strength. It didn't take long, however, for him to realize every Gronckle in the village did the same thing.

He was stacking up the staves he'd made that morning to dry while the newest barrel he'd finished sat over a small fire to char its inner walls. He picked up a load of staves, wood chips and sawdust fluttering to the ground like heavy snow. Leaning them against the side of his work shed, he peeked inside the new barrel to check the fire. He picked up a few pieces from the pile of broken staves and wood scraps he kept nearby and dropped them inside to build the fire back up.

He'd just finished stacking his morning's work when he saw Hiccup limping his way. He smiled to himself. A conversation with Stoick's son was always welcome. The scrawniest Viking in the village was the only other person who seemed to have the same level of interest in dragons as he did. Except for Jaspin, who could drive a person crazy with all his questions about everything under the sun. Especially swords. Fishlegs didn't know much about swords, or anything else except making ale and dragons.

Fishlegs noticed two things about Hiccup as he approached. First, his dragon was nowhere in sight. Toothless' absence wasn't all that unusual. As close as he and his rider were, the Night Fury sometimes wandered off on his own for hours at a time. The second thing was the intense expression on Hiccup's face. He obviously had something serious on his mind. This was confirmed by the way he nearly walked into the large stump the Ingermans used as a chopping block. It was only when he stopped, his hand on the handle of the axe Fishlegs had left buried in its scarred surface, that Hiccup looked up and saw where he was. With a slight frown, the burly young cooper wondered if he had actually intended to come his way or had simply wandered by on his way somewhere else.

When Hiccup's eyes met his, the friendly smile that came across his face convinced Fishlegs he'd meant to come to the brewery. He couldn't help noticing, however, that there was still a distracted cast to the expression his visitor wore.

"Good morning Fishlegs. Already hard at work, I see."

He shook his head. "Nah, not really. The hard part's over. This is the easy part." He peeked into his new barrel again, nearly satisfied at the amount of charring. "I'm surprised you're not down in the smithy. I hear Gobber's working like crazy to make things to take on the trading voyage."

Hiccup nodded. "He was. Until he realized how little room there is in Rorik for all the stuff he wants to take. He had to cut back." He gave a soft laugh. "A lot."

Fishlegs made a sympathetic sound. "I see." He looked his friend over, searching for clues but finding none that were obvious. "So, what brings you by?"

The oddest thing happened just then. For a moment Hiccup looked distinctly uncomfortable. Then he put on a cheerful smile and reached into his brown fur vest. He pulled out one of his journals and the charcoal stick he used for writing. "I was wondering if you had anything new to add to the manual about Gronckles."

"Are you feeling all right?"

Hiccup froze. He simply stopped moving. He didn't speak, didn't even blink. Then he made a soft sound that eventually became, "I...didn't... get a lot of sleep last night. Had a... a lot on my mind."

"Anything I can do?"

For a moment the expression on Hiccup's face became terribly somber. He looked at him as though he might ask or say something of great importance. But the moment passed and the forced smile returned. "Tell me you have something new to add to the Gronckle page!"

Fishlegs turned to look at Thunderguts, but was wondering about Hiccup's odd behavior. He thought a moment, then smiled faintly and turned back. "As a matter of fact, I found out something I never would have believed. It was just last week."

"Oh?" Green eyes shone with anticipation of new knowledge concerning dragons. The charcoal hovered impatiently.

"Yeah. I found out that Gronckles don't like cats."

Hiccup blinked a few times, trying to figure out what it meant. "Don't like them...how?"

"To eat." Fishlegs grinned. "I think it's the fur."

"Really?" The charcoal tapped the half empty page thoughtfully. "What happened?"

Fishlegs peered into his charring barrel again and decided it could come off. "Well, you know the orange tom that stays around the Laxdale's house? The real friendly one?"

Hiccup nodded as his friend set the newly charred barrel aside and picked up a small iron tripod. He placed it over the remains of the fire.

"Well, apparently it found out that a Gronckle sleeping in the sun makes a nice warm bed. He jumped up on Thundergut's head, curled up and went to sleep." He picked up a small kettle sitting nearby and hung it on the tripod. He lifted the lid and sniffed the cold stew that would soon be his breakfast. Once the kettle was in place, he sat on the ground to wait. "I watched for a minute, to see what would happen. It was over in a second." He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

"Thunderguts ate the tom?"

"I thought she did at first. It was amazing. She's usually so slow, you know. But she just opened her mouth, twitched her head and the cat was gone. Poof!" He grinned at the memory of it. "The next thing I know, she's up on her feet, shaking her head and growling. Then this wet ball of orange fur comes shooting out of her mouth and takes off for the hills." He laughed. "I didn't know who to feel sorrier for, the slobbery cat or Thuderguts. That cat must have tasted terrible the way she carried on."

Hiccup looked thoughtful. "I don't know. I think having four sets of claws and a nice batch of pointy teeth attacking the inside of your mouth would be of more concern than how it tasted."

Fishlegs stirred his stew. "Don't be silly. Gronckles spit fireballs of lava. Do you really think the inside of their mouths would feel something as puny as cat claws?"

"Hmm. You have a point there." Hiccup nodded. "I guess you're right. The tom must have tasted bad to her." He made a few quick notes in his journal. "Anything else?"

"No. Well...no." He looked pained for a moment. Then he shook his head and said nothing more.

Hiccup was confused. "What?"

"Nothing." But obviously it wasn't 'nothing'.

"Oh come on. It might be important."

Fishlegs studied the smaller teen a moment. He wavered for several seconds before he made up his mind. He got to his feet and looked around the corner of his work shed toward his house, making sure no one else was nearby. When he sat back down, he crooked a finger to beckon him to sit close. After Hiccup had managed to get himself seated, his wood and iron leg thrust out before him, he spoke in a whisper. "You have to promise me you won't ever tell my parents about this."

Hiccup's eyes widened and he leaned back a bit. He had a strange look that almost made him wish hadn't said anything. "Why?"

Fishlegs glared. "Promise not to say anything and I'll tell you." He wasn't usually very good at asserting himself, but this was too important.

With a nod, Hiccup said, "Alright. I promise. Not a word to your parents, ever."

Satisfied, he got back up and tended to his breakfast again. He cast a glance over at the lumpy pile of scales that was his sleeping Gronckle. When he turned back, the pained expression was back on his wide face.

"It was about a month ago. I was stacking staves to dry over there." He pointed at the neat, tidy arrangement of thin wooden boards piled higher than Hiccup's head. "I had just finished cutting the last ones and took them over there to put them on the pile. Suddenly I hear this weird...whooshing...sneeze." He looked pointedly at his guest. "You know the sound they make."

"She shot a fireball?" Hiccup sounded confused. "At what?"

"At me!" Fishlegs abruptly slapped both meaty hands over his mouth. He looked around the corner at his house again, then sat back down next to Hiccup. "At least that's what I thought at first," he added, once again whispering. "It was a tiny lava ball, really. Not much bigger than my hand." He shook his head, remembering his own disbelief. "But she fired it right at my feet!"

"Was she trying to hurt you?" The very idea disturbed Hiccup as much as it had Fishlegs. "Did she do it on purpose?"

Fishlegs nodded. "She did it on purpose, but she wasn't trying to hurt me." He looked again at the nearby stack of lumber. "I was standing right next to the staves, so it knocked the pile over and ruined a dozen boards. Burned holes in them."

Hiccup understood his friend's dismay. He knew what it was like to have large amounts of his work ruined by forces beyond his control. "What did you do?"

"Well, at first I didn't know what to do," was the slow response. "She'd never done anything like that before. I looked at her, ready to yell at her for ruining my pile and burning my staves. But she was just looking at me, calm as could be. Then..." He looked at Hiccup, real worry on his face. "Hiccup," he hissed. "She _nodded at me!_" He shook his own head, jowls wobbling slightly. "As thought she was happy with what she'd done!"

Hiccup leaned back slightly, a strange look on his own face. Fishlegs assumed he was perplexed by the dragon's odd behavior. For several moments, he just stared. Then, in a flat tone asked, "And then what?"

Fishlegs shook his head. "Nothing! She took off, flew off to a sunny spot, thumped to the ground and went right to sleep!" A tendril of steam came from the stewpot and he stood to stir it again. He brought a spoonful of brown liquid to his mouth, then put the spoon back in and sat down again.

"I got mad. She messed up my work, made me have to cut new staves. But then I got to thinking." He looked up at Hiccup, the worry still plain to see. "My parents, they made me promise to get rid of Thunderguts if she turned out to be too dangerous to keep around the house. I was afraid if I told them what she'd just done, they would make me get rid of her. Or worse."

Hiccup nodded. He understood such a predicament completely. "I don't know what to make of it. It doesn't make sense."

"It took me a while to figure it out. But after I pulled down the rest of the wood so I could restack it, I found something." Fishlegs got up, went inside the work shed and returned with an oddly shaped object. He placed it on the ground next to Hiccup's knee.

It was brown and burned on one end. The other end was shaped in a disturbingly familiar way. Hiccup could make out eyes, the thin slit of a mouth. He gingerly picked it up and looked closer at it. There was no doubt.

"She killed a viper?"

"I never even knew it was there. Close enough to bite me, I know it." He gazed at his dragon again. "She protected me."

Hiccup was impressed. "Wow. That's quite a story. And quite a shot, too."

Fishlegs picked up the tripod and moved it away from the fire, his calloused hands immune to the hot metal. "Yeah," he said softly. "And that's the hardest part to figure out."

"Huh?"

The burly teen stared at him. "You were there. During our dragon training. We all fought against her several times."

Hiccup suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "Yes. So?"

"So...you should put in the new dragon manual that Gronckles can fire small, high precision bursts of lava fire." He paused. "But only when they want to."

"Umm..."

"Think about it, Hiccup!" Fishlegs was still keeping his voice to a whisper, but he waved a ponderous arm in agitation. "How many times could she have injured or killed one of us during those first days of training? We barely knew how to hold a shield, and yet that was all she ever hit. Except the walls, once in a while. Not our exposed legs or our heads."

"I, uhh..."

"With that kind of control, she should have wiped us all out that first day." He took the stew kettle off the tripod and set it on the ground next to Hiccup. "Want some? It's barley and mutton."

"Ah, no, thanks." A weak, nervous smile crossed the smaller Viking's lips. "I've already eaten this morning." He watched as his friend dug into his breakfast. "So...do you have any...ideas?"

Fishlegs paused in the act of raising his spoon. "I suppose it might have been the captivity," he said thoughtfully. "All that time spent in the arena, being fed and never hunting on her own, fighting the same kind of enemy over and over." He looked at Hiccup, his expression clouded with uncertainty. "It might have dulled her instincts, made her aim...sloppy." He heard his doubts clearly in his own voice.

"Huh," Hiccup grunted. "Could be."

"No." Fishlegs shook his head, his voice strengthening. "That doesn't make sense. Even if her abilities had been diminished, the odds would eventually have her killing a trainee."

"Legs, people _have_ died during training."

He nodded. "I know." He gave his smaller companion a strange look. "Do you know why?"

Hiccup frowned slightly. "Well, I would have to assume it had something to do with the fact that they were fighting dragons at the time."

"No, I mean what they did wrong."

A shrug was all the answer the blacksmith's apprentice could give. "How would I know?"

"It's in the records."

Hiccup stared blankly. "Records?"

Fishlegs nodded. "Gobber keeps records of everyone who goes through dragon training."

"Really?" A single raised eyebrow added a dose of disbelief to his sarcastic statement.

"Oh yes. I've read all of them. When I was preparing for training myself. Not that there's much in them. Gobber's not big on writing, it seems."

Hiccup gave a quiet chuckle. "Can't say I'm surprised." He looked again at the viper's head he was still holding. "So, what did they do wrong? All those people who got killed during training."

After swallowing another spoonful of stew, he answered, "They didn't listen to Gobber. Made the stupidest of mistakes. They just...did _everything_ wrong."

"Hmm. So, what does that tell us?"

Several spoonfuls of thick, chunky stew disappeared as he considered the question. "That stupid people shouldn't fight dragons."

Hiccup sighed. "Brilliant. What else?"

Fishlegs frowned as he continued to turn it over in his mind. "I don't know, Hiccup. That, maybe, she wasn't trying to hurt us when we were fighting her?"

Now the smaller of the two paused in thought. "Interesting idea. But why would she do that? Dragons always go for the kill, right?"

"I guess." Wide shoulders shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. It doesn't make sense."

Nothing else was said for a minute. The stew vanished without being tasted. Fishlegs' gaze returned to the sleeping Gronckle again. "That isn't the only puzzle about dragons."

"Oh, tell me about it," was the quiet reply. That brought the larger lad's head back around.

"Do you wonder about them a lot?"

Hiccup gave a rueful chuckle. "All the time."

Fishlegs nodded vigorously. "Like...where did all the dragons go?"

Hiccup nodded, suddenly more animated. "Yeah." He leaned closer. "You heard them say how many dragons came pouring out of the side of that mountain."

"Hundreds!" he agreed. "My dad said maybe almost a thousand!"

"Hiccup raised his arms toward the empty sky. "Right, so where did they all go? There's maybe a hundred-"

"Probably less!"

He gave a nod despite the interruption. "Less than a hundred have shown up here at Berk. So where did all the rest go?"

"And out of those, why do only a few stay in the village? You've seen the rest of them, right? They stay around the island but never come into the village itself. Why do they hang around? What do they want?"

Warming up to the subject, Hiccup leaned closer and lowered his voice. "You want to know what bothers me the most?"

"What?"

Hiccup shifted his false leg to get more comfortable. He leaned forward, setting his journal on the ground before him. "My dad sails to the island, breaks open the mountain and attacks. All the dragons inside scatter like frightened seagulls. All but the Red Death." He looked at Fishlegs, his expression deadly serious. "We show up on the dragons from the training arena and they are more than willing to fight against it. _Against another dragon!_" He hitched a thumb over his shoulder, pointing in the general direction of his own house. "Toothless..."

For a moment, Fishlegs thought Hiccup had forgotten what he was going to say. The slim young man just stopped speaking, a truly strange expression on his freckled face. When he did resume speaking, he had to strain to hear him.

"Toothless acted like he _wanted_ to kill it. He... he seemed to _hate_ it."

"Well, I thought the idea was that it was controlling the dragons, making them feed it."

Hiccup's head snapped around. "If it controlled them, why didn't the dragons in the mountain swarm over everyone on that beach? Why did they fly away? And why didn't our dragons have any problem attacking it? That's not what I would call control!"

Fishlegs could only shake his head and shrug helplessly again. "I have no idea, Hiccup. I really don't."

The smith's apprentice subsided, thoughtfully turning his eyes down to his journal. The sounds of sheep bleating to each other and sea birds calling overhead filled the quiet moment. "There's just too much we don't know," he eventually said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

A snort and a growl brought their attention to Thunderguts, who had rolled onto her back as she continued to snooze. Fishlegs smiled to himself at the display. "Too bad we can't just ask the dragons." Gazing at the Gronckle, he didn't notice the way his slender friend twitched or the slight widening of his eyes. A few moments of peaceful silence passed.

"What if we could?"

Fishlegs was taken by surprise. The question was simple enough, innocently asked. But it still alarmed him on some level. The only response he could give was a grunted, "Huh?"

Hiccup waved a casual hand at Thunderguts, his expression almost bored but his eyes were locked on Fishlegs. "What if dragons could talk? What do you think they'd say?"

Taking the question at face value, he spent some time thinking about it. For him, however, it was a line of thought that didn't really go anywhere. Eventually he just shrugged. "I don't know. Probably 'Feed me' or 'Let's go flying.'"

For a moment there was no reply. Hiccup just stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded and picked up his journal, tucking it under his vest. "Well, I've got a few other things to do today. I'll talk to you later, Legs." He got himself standing with only a little wobbling. He gave a smile and headed off.

Fishlegs watched him go, wondering what to make of the last question his friend had asked. Why would he wonder about dragons trying to speak? Or what they would say? He knew Hiccup was smart and that he had learned a lot about dragons. Possibly more than any other Viking ever had.

When he thought about what Thunderguts had done and what Hiccup had asked, he started to get a weird little itch in the back of his mind. He was great at memorizing and learning, but putting things together and solving problems wasn't his strength. It didn't take long for him to set the whole thing aside and leave it for his friend. He had other tasks ahead of him. He picked up his newly charred barrel and brought it inside the work shed, humming to himself.

* * *

It was hard to do anything sneaky in Berk. Everyone knew everyone else. Everyone knew where certain folks belonged and where they didn't. It was even harder when you had an artificial limb that squeaked and thumped and announced you wherever you went. But Hiccup didn't want to be seen doing what he was doing. That meant he had to try being sneaky.

Luckily for him, his goal was acting like a pile of rocks in a spot between a few houses where few eyes would see.

Ordinarily he wouldn't have disturbed a sleeping Gronckle. They were notoriously hard to wake and were never in the best of moods when cheated out of their sleep. Since Hiccup didn't know when such an opportunity might come again, he decided to risk getting thumped by a grouchy dragon.

Thunderguts was just lying there, breathing with the usual buzzing sound she made when she slept. But when he came around in front of her, he saw her eyes were partly open. She was tracking his movements the instant he came into her view. He didn't know what to make of that, but decided it was his good fortune that he didn't have to actually wake her.

"Hello Thunderguts." As soon as he said it he remembered what Toothless had inferred about dragons having their own names. Since he didn't know her real name, he had to simply push ahead with his idea. "I was wondering if I could talk to you."

She didn't react. He hadn't known what to expect from her, but he had hoped she would at least acknowledge him. Suddenly he wondered if Gronckles slept with their eyes partly open. He moved a few paces around her large head, watching her eyes. She tracked his movements, even blinked once. Otherwise, nothing.

He looked around again, making sure no one would see him trying to talk to someone else's dragon. He and Thunderguts were still unobserved. He leaned forward slightly and spoke quietly. "I'm sorry if I'm bothering you, but I wanted to ask you a few questions."

Another slow blink was the only movement other than her breathing. He wondered if she were one of the dragons who couldn't understand Norse. He pressed on anyway, hoping his luck would hold.

"I'm trying to understand you and the other dragons, but it's hard to figure out a lot of what's going on with you guys. I was really hoping you could...maybe..."

Thunderguts had closed her eyes.

"Please, I need your help. I'm worried about what might happen if Vikings don't do a better job of understanding dragons and the things they do."

Nothing. Hiccup sighed.

"I only want to help. I'm... I'm worried."

Still nothing.

He reached out a hand toward her snout, but hesitated to touch her. He wasn't really afraid she'd hurt him, not intentionally. Fishleg's story about the orange tom cat came to mind and he couldn't quite bring himself to lay his hands on her. He dropped his arm to his side.

In desperation he said, "I know dragons have their own names. I'm sorry I don't know yours or I'd call you by it."

Her eyes opened, still only partially but nonetheless looking right at him. He felt a little quiver of excitement.

"Please, if I ask you some yes or no questions would you answer me? You can just nod or shake... your..."

She'd closed her eyes again.

Disappointment filled his heart as he turned and walked away. Maybe he'd have better luck with Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare. It would be harder, though. Those two were often together, at least as much as Toothless and himself.

Hiccup had only taken a few steps when he heard a rustle and the sound of wooden boards being moved. He stopped and turned to look. Thunderguts had gotten up and gone to the scrap wood pile that Fishlegs kept for his fires. She was pawing through the broken bits of wood, looking for something. Apparently she found what she wanted fairly quickly, for she took one broken board in her mouth and walked toward Hiccup.

She sat down with the board between her front legs and began gnawing on the end. Her eyes were solidly on Hiccup, watching him intensely. She crunched the wood easily yet carefully. With a gentle huff, she spit out chunks of wood she'd bitten off the board.

Hiccup watched for a minute, thoroughly confused by what he was seeing. Was this related to his asking her to help him? Was she hungry and this was her way of expressing it? Was she bored?

More splinters and chunks of wood were expelled from her large mouth. All the while she kept her gaze on him. At times he could tell she was digging her teeth into the wood with deliberate care, other times she was simply biting off small bits and spitting them out. She looked at her progress a few times, seeming to judge her work. To his eyes, she was doing nothing more than turning the end of the board into a ragged collection of bite marks.

After a few minutes, Hiccup decided some dragons were weirder than he'd ever expected. He turned to leave Thunderguts to her odd habits. He took no more than a single step when he heard a warbling growl. He turned back to find her staring at him, her shredded plank momentarily ignored. She grumble/snarled to him again, and he remembered Toothless 'talking' to him on the islet. He decided to wait and find out what this was about.

Thunderguts went back to her chewing. Still she watched only him, taking her eyes off him only to examine her work. It took only a few more minutes before she seemed satisfied with her efforts. She bit the frayed end of the board off and dropped it to the ground. She then hit it with a tiny blob of lava fire. As soon as the wood started burning, she stepped on it, snuffing the flames. She turned it over and repeated the process until both sides were as charred as the inside of one of Fishlegs' ale barrels.

Finally, the Gronckle took the splintered, burned piece of wood in her mouth and brought it directly to Hiccup.

"Uhh, for me?" He really had no idea what it meant or why she had done it. He carefully took the bit of wood from her and looked closely at it. It resembled nothing more to his eyes than exactly what he expected. He made himself smile to her. "Thank you, this is very... nice!" He brushed off the dirt and grass that had been pressed into it when Thunderguts had stomped on it to put out the fire. "I appreciate it, really!"

Fishlegs' odd dragon set her wings to beating and lifted up just enough to take her back to her sleeping spot. As soon as she landed she collapsed onto her side and lay still. Not knowing what else to expect, Hiccup made a hasty retreat toward his house. He needed to think about some things.

He got away from the Gronckle without anyone noticing his strange little encounter and made his way through the village. He passes a few folks and gave casual greetings to them. As he made his way up the steps to his door, he glanced at the gnawed wood again. He saw no reason to keep it, so he casually tossed it away.

Hiccup missed a step and fell, but having fallen on steps so many times because of his leg he had taught himself how to throw out his arms and tuck his left leg to keep it from hitting anything hard. He succeeded in averting another injury to his shortened leg, then turned his head in the direction he'd thrown the bit of chewed wood.

His eyes had to have been deceiving him. It couldn't have been what he'd thought. He'd only gotten a glimpse from the corner of his eye as it spun away into the grass. But he had to know.

He carefully turned himself to a seated position on the steps, then got up and went looking where he'd thrown the charred fragment. It didn't take long to find it, black among the newly green grass. He held it before him, staring at it, turning it slowly. Where was it? He rotated it, spun it, moved it slowly until suddenly he saw it.

With the light behind it and held at just the right angle, Hiccup could see the purpose of Thundergut's careful work. It was astonishing how much detail was in it. It was astonishing she could do it at all. But it was obvious to him now. The outline of a Night Fury was something with which he was quite familiar. And not just any Night Fury, but one with a missing tail fin.

"Oh man." Dragons were people, dragons were puzzles, and now dragons were artists.

The longer he stared, the easier it was to see and the more amazing it looked to him. He noticed something, though; a single detail that didn't make sense unless it was a mistake. Right in the center of Toothless' tiny charred black body were two holes, right about where his heart would be.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission


	10. A change of fortune

.

Broken

Chapter 10: A change of fortune

Kettlecrack had been tracking the boar for almost an hour, having found a well rooted spot where the animal had torn up the ground. He'd followed its trail to another muddy wallow it had scraped out next to a small stream but didn't find it there. With an annoyed grunt he began ranging around the pig-plowed ground, searching for further evidence as to which way the thing had gone. There was plenty of grass and short scrub to tell the tale of the animal's passing, but the evidence eluded him.

He was about to give up when he noticed a strange set of depressions in the grass a ways from the pig's resting spot. He didn't know what species they belonged to, but the size and shape meant they could only belong to one creature.

A dragon.

He drove the point of his spear into the ground in disgust and reached for his water skin. A few swallows gave him a moment to think, but the only thought that ran through his mind was that it wasn't fair.

To be honest, dragon deprivation had eased considerably of late. It was actually easier to hunt on Berk's main island than it ever had been. The game was slowly making a comeback, but the beasts that stayed around the village still had to eat. That sometimes meant following a spoor only to find a few prints left by the dragon that dropped down and carried off your game. Sometimes there weren't even prints left if the dragon simply snatched up the animal and flew away with it.

This wasn't the first hunt he'd had ruined by some feral dragon hanging around the island. Before the end of the fighting between Vikings and dragons it was easy to blame his inability to find game on the raiding beasts. Now that such competition had eased, he was faced with the fact that he simply wasn't a very good hunter. It was harder for him to find game and make a kill than it was for most other men in Berk. But to be repeatedly denied his chance to take home a deer or wild sheep he'd managed to spot was practically an insult. It seemed he was often destined to be a few steps behind some dragon or other.

He wasn't much better as a fisherman, either. He often helped on whatever ships were going out to drop nets, but he could do little other than offer a strong back to pull those nets up.

Making a living hadn't been easy for him, no matter what direction he turned. Pottery had required too sensitive a touch for his large hands. Wood carving left him bleeding from numerous small wounds. He thought he'd found his calling when he managed to convince the childless Haralds, Styrkar and Tola, to take him as an apprentice in their small bakery. That didn't last long, as he found he couldn't remember all the steps involved and had a bad habit of leaving out key ingredients. Styrkar finally complained that if it were his intention to keep baking bricks, he should go back to trying pottery.

Having a quick temper didn't help things, either. He'd been given the name Kettlecrack when he was only 8 years old. He'd been hungry and when he found the family stewpot to be empty he'd slammed it to the ground, shattering it. That same temper had flared at Styrkar's sarcastic jest. So now if he had a silver penny to buy bread, he had to ask someone else to get it for him as he was no longer welcome in the Harald's shop.

He'd done slightly better as a warrior, fighting dragons whenever they showed up. In his lifetime, however, he'd only managed two kills. He was pretty sure he'd grievously injured many more but seemed to have trouble inflicting mortal wounds.

And so he made his way through life, unskilled, unmarried and unremarkable. He got by doing whatever small tasks around the village he could to earn a coin or two. That often meant helping harvest barley, helping shear the sheep, helping Ingifast haul felled trees to his boatyard or whatever laborious task was currently in need of doing.

What he felt he could be best at he was never given a change to try. He was certain he was perfectly suited to be the chieftain. He'd watched Stoick for years and seen the job he'd done so far. He had no doubt in his mind that he could rule the village just as well. There was, of course, the small problem of lineage. Stoick's son would be the next leader and failing that, Snotlout could most likely assume command. There would likely be no chance for him to fill the role for which he knew he was meant.

He harbored no ill feelings toward Hiccup. It was understood that Viking tradition would see the hapless twig boy become chief of the tribe. Even if that same twig boy had shattered several traditions himself.

It just wasn't fair.

Every bit as unfair as having your prey stolen out from under you by a dragon.

Kettlecrack looked up at the sun, seeing that he still had more than half a day left. He began working his way further from Berk in hopes of spotting more signs of game.

* * *

He'd gone farther than he had intended. The stately spruces and pines were thinning out and more scrub was filling the spaces between them. The tangy whiff of resin and moss was being touched with the biting scent of salt and seaweed. He'd meant to search the shallow valley a ways back from where he now was, but he'd apparently passed it by.

Kettlecrack knew the island as well as anyone but he'd let himself get distracted by his list of shortcomings. It was a bad habit he had, going over the failures he'd compiled over the years. No one faulted him for his lack of skills. Some folks simply weren't blessed with abilities that helped them stand out and succeed. At least he wasn't cursed as Hiccup had been, sowing confusion and various levels of destruction wherever he went.

But that only went so far. He was meant for greatness, he felt sure of it. He hadn't yet discovered any talent that would carry him to his goal, nor had anyone else seen such in him. Which left only leadership. Being a chieftain was about presence and knowledge and wisdom. It was about convincing people to follow you and solving their problems and settling their disputes. You arranged marriages, you managed the village's resources and you took care of any transgressions that broke common laws or went against the Viking traditions.

Most of all, though, you fought your enemies. You planned against attacks and you went on raids. You swung your sword and you blocked with your shield and your foes trembled before you.

All that had stopped long ago, when dragons had become the only foe Berk had. There had been plenty of glory for all those who could take it, who could wrest it from the jaws of the flying monsters that had plagued them for centuries. With dragons around, being a Viking was easy. The enemy was always there, always predictable, always dangerous.

Now, with all that gone, the village was just going about its usual business of day to day tasks. No one was planning raids or preparing for attacks. It bothered Kettlecrack immensely. Not just that they were no longer acting like Vikings, but that they now had the use of those same enemies as engines of attack. He could imagine how powerful Berk would be if they flew their dragons to the nearest tribe's island and hit them with dragon fire. They wouldn't be expecting it. The way he saw it, Berk must have been assumed to be abandoned long ago, burned to the ground by relentless dragon attacks. This was the perfect time, the perfect opportunity. It all lay before them, ready to take to hand and use against anyone they chose.

Stoick, however, didn't see it that way.

He supposed it was understandable. How many chieftains before him had only dragons to fight? Kettlecrack suspected Stoick and those before him had forgotten the reasons for going after other tribes. Fighting other Vikings would at least bring you plunder, food and treasure for the taking. To him, however, fighting dragons was like fighting death. You might win today, but the only reward was another day of life.

So if the Haddock line had gotten it in their heads that fighting dragons was the only honorable fight to be had, where did that leave them now? Dragons wandered the village, ate of their food and brought food in as well. They soared aimlessly through the skies, unmolested and causing no harm. And no one fought anyone.

How long could that last? What was the point of living, of being a Viking?

Stoick didn't need to be leader anymore. His soft hearted son had unwittingly given the tribe the gift of a weapon unequaled in their history. But peace with dragons didn't need to mean peace with everyone. It should mean an end to the stagnation Berk had suffered for hundreds of years.

And he was the only one who could see it. Well, the only one left who could see it. He'd found plenty of others in the village who thought as he did. As time went on and Stoick talked to each of them in turn, they changed their minds. He'd talked to Kettlecrack, too, but he hadn't convinced him.

The sun was less than an hour from setting and he was nearly to the other side of the island. He'd let time get away from him and now he would have to find shelter for the night before he went back. Glancing around at the sparse trees, he had an idea of where he was. He listened intently and heard what he expected: surf. He was only minutes away from the northern shore.

He'd been here before, more than once. This particular evening it was harder to recognize the place he knew. The sun was preparing to set behind leaden clouds that threatened rain and a stiff cold breeze was pushing his long forked beard this way and that. He'd tied the long, dirty blonde hair into three braids with thin leather strips.

He worked his way to the rocky beach and gazed left and right, trying to get his bearings. To his right was the rocky outcropping that held several small caves sometimes used as shelters during a hunt. He could also see that the endless battering of the waves had taken down one of the higher rocky points further along the beach. Kettlecrack's father had brought him to its jutting point to look out upon the sea, then down to the massive cut below where the rocks had been weak. "Remember this, boy," he'd said to his temperamental son. "What looks strong can still be cut down if the weakness is attacked. Some day this'll fall, and the rocks will belong to the sea."

It had finally happened, perhaps during that miserable storm that had battered them last winter. There was nothing left of the point but a slumping pile of broken stones standing out in the water. Kettlecrack wished he had been there to see it happen, hear the grinding thunder as it all collapsed. He looked around him for dead wood to make a fire.

As the sun was setting, he leaned back in the rough, low cave and watched the dark surf below him. A small but cheerful fire blazed before him, warming him and the salted fish he'd brought with him. While it wasn't the most comfortable place to sleep, it was certainly better than sleeping in the open. The cave was well above the high tide line and there were no signs that any animals had laid claim to it, so he had no serious concerns for his safety while he slept. He built the fire up a bit before he laid down, though, just in case.

Just as his eyes were closing, he heard a sound from outside. It might have been some shifting rock or a falling branch from a nearby tree. In the darkness outside, though, he could see two shiny spots reflecting the firelight from the lower right corner of the cave's opening. They were small, close together and low to the ground. It could have been anything from a squirrel to a feral cat. He saw no reason to worry.

Until the eyes started to move.

At first they moved sideways, toward the center of the cave's opening. He wondered if the animal couldn't see him in the back of the cave, but he was fairly well lit with firelight so that seemed unlikely. The eyes also seemed to bob a bit, as though the animal were moving its head around, scouting the inside, looking for danger. He had no objection to sharing his cave with a cat or squirrel as long as it kept to itself and kept quiet. It would probably flee the moment it realized he was there, however.

A minute or so passed before he realized the eyes had gotten larger. Was the creature growing? How was that possible?

Then the eyes rose from the ground and hovered near the top of the cave's opening.

He sat bolt upright, grabbing his spear and shield. The eyes stopped moving.

An absurd feeling of relief went through him a moment later. It had to be one of the feral dragons that had settled on Berk in the last few months. Although he's seen no signs that anything had been living in the cave previously, it was possible this beast knew of its location and had wanted to know why there was a fire inside it tonight.

The feeling of relief cooled quickly as he watched the eyes remain perfectly still. Feral dragons caused no problems, generally speaking. They would occasionally get bold and approach villagers looking for a handout. Those who were inclined would give them a fish or a chunk of smoked mutton, mostly to help keep the peace. But that didn't mean that dragons weren't dangerous. There were plenty of rarer species that one simply didn't go near. If this was one of those...

Slowly, he stood. He held onto his spear and shield but allowed them swing down to his sides. It wasn't an offensive or defensive position, just a cautious one. He hoped the dragon understood that.

Nothing changed. The eyes blinked once or twice, but otherwise didn't move. Finally, he took a step forward.

The eyes closed, and did not reopen. He heard nothing, saw nothing. Frowning, he moved slowly toward the cave's mouth and peered around. In the faint light of a quarter moon largely covered by heavy clouds, he saw only an empty beach.

He returned to his bedroll at the back of the cave, but found it rather difficult to get to sleep.

* * *

The following morning Kettlecrack looked for tracks or other signs of what his mysterious visitor had been. The ground was rocky so there were no good prints. The vegetation near the cave's entrance seemed undisturbed. He glanced around, wondering briefly if he'd dreamt the whole thing. He moved down to the beach, listening to the frigid waters gently caress the dark shore. There was no sign there, either.

He shrugged and went about his business.

Since he'd trekked through the eastern half of the island getting where he was, he decided to head home through the western half. If there was game to be had, perhaps he'd have better fortune there.

For a time, his luck seemed to change for the better. He startled two deer and a wild sheep but lost each in the chase. He tried moving quietly, hoping to catch the next creature unawares. It worked, but not to his advantage. A large buck had bedded in a thicket of heavy brush. Neither knew of the other's presence until the buck raised its head so suddenly that he flinched and stumbled backward. As he landed on his rump he caught a flash of light brown fur and leaping legs just before a pair of hooves grazed the top of his helm. He tried to jump back up and hurl his spear but his feet tangled and he lost hold of his weapon. By the time he'd blindly groped for it and hurled it from a sitting position the deer was long gone. Not that it mattered. What he'd thrown had been nothing more than a stick that had been lying near where his spear had fallen.

With a grunt of frustration he threw himself back down and lay in the leaf litter for a time. He tried not to think about how many times he'd failed in this single hunt, but could not help himself. He studied the trees that towered above him, the thin wispy clouds that dotted the sky; anything to distract him from his foul mood.

That's when he noticed the dragon.

It was wheeling directly above him. Probably thinks I'm dead, he mused. He found himself wondering if it would land on him, expecting a meal of carrion. Perhaps that would have been a good way to hunt them, back when they had hunted them.

It looked to be a Monstrous Nightmare with the typical red and yellow markings. Its lazy drifting course brought it near the edge of the noon time sun, just near enough to the light for him to see through the thinner flesh and hide of its wings. For the span of a heartbeat he could see the relatively delicate bone structure of its large wings, framed in translucent skin and smudged with a spider's web of veins. The raw beauty of it struck him so that he remained there, laying on the ground and hoping for another glimpse of it.

When it disappeared off to the south, he finally got up and started walking again. He needed to hurry if he wanted to get home before dark. Chasing those animals had used a lot of the day and he was still some distance from the village.

He'd only gotten over one ridge when his luck turned once again. He heard a grunt, followed by a squeal. Another boar, and a big one from the sound of it. It seemed to be upwind of him so he began his careful approach. He would get it right this time!

Every step was cautious, every move planned. Each time he heard the boar grunt he would check to make sure he was still downwind. He soon heard the faint sound of a small stream. If this animal had the same fondness for rooting in the muck of its banks as the last one had, there was a good chance he could get close to it without being seen.

The trees ahead thinned to a small clearing. He remembered this stream and knew it crossed the clearing, dividing it roughly in half. One last time the animal sounded off, and he gripped his spear tighter, determined to make this charge count.

He got only an instant's warning. A shadow blotted out the sun for an eyeblink. It was followed by a heavy thump and a single, panicked squeal. Then there was only the soft sound of a few falling leaves and the heavy breathing of a large creature.

Not believing his luck could be this bad, he grunted in anger and walked boldly into the clearing. He wasn't certain what he intended. He only knew it was beyond unfair for it to have happened twice in two days.

It was a Monstrous Nightmare, perhaps the same one he'd watched gliding overhead not long ago. It stood over one of the largest boars he'd ever seen. It was a fairly clean kill; the pig's back was obviously broken.

He stood there, glaring at the dragon that had taken the meat from his table. He briefly considered hurling his spear at it, but something told him to stay his hand. It took him several moments to realize a few important things.

The dragon wasn't eating its kill. It was just sitting there.

And it wasn't just sitting there. It was sitting there, staring directly at him. It was resting on all fours, the dead boar shaded from the sun by its long, narrow head.

It was also not fully grown. Or it was the smallest Nightmare he'd ever come across, he wasn't sure which.

The longer he stood there, staring at the dragon, the more confused he became. Was the Nightmare concerned about his presence? Did it want something? Was it waiting for him to leave? He had no idea.

Taming dragons was also an area in which he'd failed, often. When it became obvious to everyone that dragon behavior had changed and villagers could approach them, even ride them, he knew what he had to do. He had to get himself a dragon to ride. Dragons were the key to a successful new Berk, and he knew what had to be done. But he'd been rebuffed by every winged reptile on the island. Some might let him get close enough to toss them a fish, but if he tried to lay hands on them they would bolt. It was confusing and infuriating.

It had gotten to the point that some people started joking about it. That had soured his outlook on dragons living in Berk for a time, but the idea of using them as weapons still held much promise in his mind. The saving grace had been that he wasn't the only one the beasts avoided. Some half dozen other villagers couldn't get close to a dragon before it would fly off. He was the only one, however, who still wanted to after one or two failed attempts.

Now he was facing a Monstrous Nightmare, the species he'd most wanted to tame. He had no clear idea what its intentions were but he couldn't let the opportunity pass without trying. He laid down his spear and shield, feeling somewhat vulnerable with only his dagger tucked in his belt. A single step toward the dragon caused it to tilt its head, as though it were also uncertain how this encounter would go.

Then the beast lowered its head and nudged the dead boar with its nose. It growled quietly, nudged the carcass again and took a step back. A tiny thrill of hope went through him. He took a very cautious step forward. The Nightmare stepped back again, keeping its eyes on him.

By the time he stood next to the dead boar offered by the dragon, he was feeling more positive than ever about bringing his plans to completion. But he knew he still had to be careful. This was likely to be the only chance he would ever get.

With the dragon standing a short distance away, watching his every move, Kettlecrack slowly withdrew his dagger. He only did so after he knelt next to the boar, his head down and his eyes on the carcass. He wanted the beast to understand that the weapon was in no way intended for use on it. The Nightmare made no move.

Yet another skill he'd never fully developed was butchering. He often tended to make a mess of any animal to which he took a blade. But the finished cuts would make little difference this time. It was the gesture that was important, and he could manage that easily enough.

The boar was huge, a massive male. If he'd taken the thing himself, he'd most likely have had a hard time getting it home. He doubted he could have carried it all the way back to Berk. The large hindquarters, though, he could manage handily. In his mind, it seemed only fair. It was the dragon's kill so it should get the majority of the meat. He made his first cuts, starting at its spine and working around its belly.

Once the large hams had been laid out on the ground he took some leather thongs from his small travel pack and tied the hoof ends to the ends of his spear. That would allow him to carry them balanced across his wide shoulders and make for an easier journey. Satisfied with his work, he stepped back from the bloody carcass. He faced the dragon, wondering what to do next. He glanced down at the pig as inspiration suddenly hit. He knelt by the boar once more and opened its belly further. He quickly found its liver and removed it. Remembering the tales he'd heard related around the winter cook fires about how Hiccup had first won his dragon's trust, he held the choice morsel before him and slowly approached the Nightmare.

The dragon hunched down as though preparing to spring into flight. Kettlecrack stopped and wondered if he'd misunderstood what the dragon wanted.

"Don't worry," he said. "I don't mean you any harm." He took another very slow step. "I want us to be friends, see. I have need of you." Yet another slow step saw the beast relax slightly. It started sniffing deeply, perhaps getting wind of the tasty organ being offered. Gradually he closed the distance between them until he was almost near enough to touch its snout. He might have tried to but he needed both hands to hold the slippery mass of meat. "This is for you, to say thank you." He held the liver up higher.

It was the dragon that closed the final distance between them. It stretched its long neck until the very tip of its muzzle was touching the bloody, dripping meat. It inhaled strongly, seeming to savor the scent of the offering. Very slowly and with deliberate care, it opened its maw and closed the tip of its snout over the top of the liver. A few of its smaller front teeth managed to pierce it. It lifted the morsel out of his hands, drew its head back, raised its snout and let the liver fall into its open mouth. He watched it chew it briefly before swallowing, a look of contentment on its long narrow face. He also heard a faint thrumming sound, something he'd heard Spitelout's boy describe once.

He could hardly believe his luck had changed so well, and so quickly. But he had to remain careful. Dragons could be skittish creatures. He still held his hands out, though they were empty. The Nightmare gazed at him now with a calm demeanor. It looked down at his outstretched hands and once again brought its nose slowly closer.

Kettlecrack wanted to touch it, to make that contact that would help prove his friendly intentions. Looking down at his hands, however, he realized they were covered in pig's blood. Would the beast mistake him for food with the heavy scent of prey coming from part of his body?

That thought was momentarily overwhelmed by the slight bump of the Nightmare's horned snout touching his hands. It sniffed at him. He held himself perfectly motionless.

It took all his courage to remain unmoving when he suddenly felt a warm, wet pressure against the backs of his upturned hands. It moved from his wrists to his fingers. He felt it again, wrists to fingers, and realized it was the dragon's tongue. The beast was still thrumming, still looking placid and pleased. And its tongue moved around the side of his right wrist and hand, licking off the boar's blood.

The tongue was as thick as his arm, with a forked end that seemed almost prehensile. The ends of the tongue would lightly wrap themselves around his hand to gently scrape them clean. It was hot, too. At least in comparison to his own skin.

In this way the Monstrous Nightmare cleaned his hands. When no more of the pig's blood was left, it stopped licking and just looked at him. He looked down at his hands, grinning. He'd traded boar's blood for dragon slobber, but he thought it a worthwhile exchange. It was time for the next step.

He turned his hands over and slowly moved the palms close to the Nightmare's nose. The creature froze but didn't bolt. "It's alright," he said quietly. "I won't hurt you." Very slowly he lowered his hands until they were pressed against the warm rough scales of the dragon's muzzle.

There was a faint hint of oiliness on the creature's scales, and this close to it he could smell something that reminded him of the pitch they would use to make the heads of torches. The thrumming continued and the dragon's eyes closed briefly. He took another step and lightly rubbed around the short horn that sprouted just above its large, oval nostrils. When that seemed to please the beast he moved one hand, making certain not to make contact with the teeth that stuck up out of its mouth, to the underside of its jaw and scratched lightly there.

The dragon slowly sank to the ground, still thrumming and having a hard time keeping its eyes open. He was quite proud of his progress and decided to take it one step farther. He stilled his hands and withdrew them. When the Nightmare's large eyes opened to gaze at him, he took a step back, then turned and went back to the boar's body. He might not be able to carry the thing all the way to Berk, but it wasn't hard to drag it the short distance to the dragon. He stopped a few paces away from it and let the carcass go. He patted the boar's flank and said, "You should have the rest of this." Then he retrieved his spear, the two heavy hams swinging from its ends, and settled it across his shoulders.

The dragon approached the boar it had killed hesitantly. It looked at him, seeming a bit confused. It nudged the remains toward him, as it did the first time. He patted the heavy portions dangling from his spear. "Oh, I've got plenty. This will last me longer than that will you." The Nightmare seemed to understand then. With a last look at him, it started biting large hunks off the carcass. He watched with morbid fascination as the dragon's sharp teeth sliced through bones and hide with little problem. It took only a few minutes for the entire boar to disappear.

Without the wild pig between them, Kettlecrack had to make a decision. Again, he decided on caution and deliberation. He didn't want to ruin the progress he'd made by pushing forward too fast or too hard. It would have been nice to ride the dragon back to the village. He'd heard too many stories from those few folks who'd taken to riding them about letting the dragon make the approach. If the beast was willing to let someone climb on its back, it would make it known. Otherwise it was not wise to press for the right.

He slowly stepped close to the Nightmare and gently put his hand on its snout again, just for a moment. "I'm going back to the village. Will you come with me?"

He backed up a bit, pointed south and started walking. He hadn't even crossed half the clearing when he heard the heavy tread of the dragon behind him. Looking back, he saw it was walking after him. He wondered what it would do when he stepped between the trees on the other side.

The answer was not long in coming. A short squawk preceded the sound of powerful wings unfurling and stroking the air, telling him the Nightmare was aloft. He kept looking up, trying to keep it in sight. It seemed the dragon was better able to keep sight of him as he went, for he repeatedly saw it cross in front of the sun. He assumed it was circling over his head most of the time, blocked from sight by the towering trees.

He'd finally done it! He had his own dragon to train. And once he had it trained properly, he would be able to prove to Stoick and anyone else that his idea was a good one. He could already see himself soaring over the ocean, heading toward the nearest rival tribe's village. He didn't know where it was but he felt certain someone in Berk must have maps that showed them. Of course, then he'd have to learn how to read maps.

Minor details, he was sure. The hard part would be getting the animal to learn to fly against other Vikings, to breathe fire on command. But it would work. It had to. His luck had finally changed, and he intended to change all of Berk with it.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**Author's Note**

I keep expecting each chapter to take less time, and each one seems to fight me harder than the last. I didn't really enjoy writing this one from the start. It's a necessary part of the whole story, but there are things about it that I had trouble bringing to the page. Hopefully it won't show too bad.


	11. Mouths in dust

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Broken

Chapter 11: Mouths in dust

Toothless gazed with fierce intensity at the small creature before him. His eyes seemed to glow and his whole body was locked in tense rigidity. The object of his scrutiny held as still as possible, watching the dragon with wide eyes. Only their breathing could be heard; one calm and measured, the other quick and shallow. Slowly and with great deliberation he lifted his lips and snarled.

"Hrrarghhh!"

The Night Fury's eyes narrowed in displeasure. He lowered his wide head slightly and snarled again.

"Hrrararraghhh!"

His retractile teeth showed themselves, glistening and full of potential. He snarled once more, loudly.

"HRRARARAGARAGHHH!"

In an instant his whole posture changed to one of defeat. He shook his head and slumped to the ground.

"Oh come on!" Hiccup complained. "Wasn't I even close?"

Toothless shifted his eyes to gaze at his rider. His only answer was a quiet grunt that had been designated 'No' between them.

Frustrated, the one legged Viking leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "It's not easy, you know. My throat isn't built like yours."

A brisk, salt-laden breeze stirred the stunted trees and the tough, thin bladed grass that grew in the few places it could find to sink roots. They had returned to the raised islet where they'd had their first 'conversation' and Hiccup had learned of Toothless' true status as a person. The young man now considered it to be as special to him as the cove where they'd formed their friendship. It didn't hurt that it was out of the way, out of sight of the village and only accessible by dragon. It was highly unlikely they would be interrupted during their 'lessons.'

Interruptions had turned out to be the least of their difficulties. Hiccup's goal of learning to interpret and speak Toothless' language had proved far more difficult to reach than he'd ever imagined. Worse, it seemed the failure was all on Hiccup's side of the equation.

At the start it had gone well enough. Hiccup's first notion was to get a few key words worked out between them. They'd started with 'yes', 'no', 'danger', 'hungry', 'fly', and 'home.' The Night Fury had patiently repeated those words until he was fairly certain he could tell them apart. It was surprisingly hard, though. For one thing, the light gurgling rumble the dragon gave for 'yes' and 'fly' were annoyingly similar. He had to concentrate very hard to hear the difference, and often had to rely on context to help him out. If he asked his friend a yes or no question, he could be fairly certain an answer that sounded like 'fly' was actually 'yes.'

The first serious problem showed up when he tried to learn more words. His ears had trouble distinguishing the subtle growls and warbles and trills of more difficult words. He'd even been somewhat shocked to hear the words 'up' and 'down' were so similar he couldn't tell them apart at all. It didn't help that both words had sounded suspiciously like a dragon-sized belch.

The next stumbling block came when he asked Toothless to construct simple sentences out of the few words he could understand with reasonable accuracy. He was horrified to learn that the way dragon words were put together to form sentences changed the sounds of the individual words themselves. It had taken him a whole day to figure that out. If Norse words had combined to make sentences the way draconic ones did, the words, 'I', 'see' and 'home' would blur together into something like 'Yisssoom.'

At first, Hiccup wondered if they could get by forming a new grammar for the two of them. It might have worked much the same way children learning to talk would slur, distort or drop words to form crude sentences that adults could understand. He didn't think he'd mind if Toothless had to use dragon 'baby-talk' to communicate with him, so long as it worked.

Finally, the most serious blow to Hiccup's plans. He tried to reproduce the words that Toothless had been teaching him. He'd felt a fool from the start, trying to make his high, nasal voice push out heavy, rumbling draconic words. But it felt far worse when the dragon indicated he wasn't even close to managing it. He'd been trying to say 'yes', 'no', and 'home' most of the morning. To the best of his knowledge, the only thing he'd accomplished was to give himself a headache, a sore throat and a miserable sense of failure.

Now he sat, despondent, staring out at the brilliant blue waters and wishing he were a dragon. He saw no way around it. Hiccup would never be able to properly speak the language of the dragons. He couldn't even speak it _improperly._ Disappointment had been a constant companion during his life thus far, but it had never had quite so sharp an edge as it did today. He'd always thought himself clever enough to get around any problems his often inadequate body posed. Even the loss of a limb was manageable, especially with Gobber as an experienced guide. But there was nothing he could do to make his voice reproduce the sounds that made up the language Toothless used. His ears, his throat and his brain had all been proven completely incapable.

Toothless sat next to him, his tail comfortably wrapped around his hips and the edge of one wing lying gently against his back. The Night Fury also stared out at the endless waves. Hiccup looked up at his best friend, at the heavily muscled neck and wide jaws. Curiosity moved him.

"Toothless, would you do something for me?" Since learning that his reptilian companion was, in fact, a person, Hiccup had made certain to treat him with the same dignity and respect as he would anyone else in the village. The dragon gave him a questioning look and then nodded. "Would you let me put my hand on your throat as you speak?" Toothless tipped his head slightly to say, 'Go ahead.'

With the dragon's head stretched out a bit and Hiccup's hands in place, one on the side of his neck and one on his throat just behind his jaws, the short experiment began. His friend spoke for about a minute. Hiccup moved his hands over and around his neck and throat as he did. By the time Toothless fell silent, he had realized two important things. First, that there was a tremendous amount of power shaping the sounds that came from his friend's throat. He could directly feel the muscles under his hands moving and vibrating so forcefully that he wondered if _any_ muscle in his own body was strong enough to replicate the sounds the Fury made.

Secondly, he could also feel a faint but definite vibration in his own chest when Toothless spoke. Somehow, some part of the black dragon's speech could only be felt, not heard. It occurred to him that those vibrations might also be part of how dragons spoke, that without them the words would be incorrect, mere gibberish.

It wasn't the end of the world, he knew. As much as he wanted to be able to speak to any dragon at will, there were still other means available to him. He was sure Toothless would be willing to act as translator. If he put enough effort into the learning, he still believed he could come to understand the words they spoke to him. But to be denied the ability to respond, to hold a one-on-one conversation with any dragon he met, took a powerful tool out of his hands. Until he did learn to hear their words properly, he couldn't even hold a real conversation with his best friend. He wasn't sure which hurt more.

Thoroughly dispirited, Hiccup leaned sideways until his head was pressed against Toothless' neck. He laid one hand against the Fury's shoulder and sighed. "I really wanted this to work. It would have made things so much easier." Toothless curled his head around until his chin was touching Hiccup's shoulder and crooned quietly.

As they sat commiserating, Hiccup felt something pushing harshly into his armpit. He ignored it, wanting no distractions. When the pressure became uncomfortably sharp, he realized what it was. It was his journal, the most recent one he'd made for himself. He used it strictly for keeping notes on his observations of dragons. Keeping a journal tucked into the pocket he'd sewn to the inside of his brown fur vest was convenient for him. Sometimes it also proved annoying. Such as when it poked him if he turned his upper body a certain way.

Distracted by the physical discomfort caused by the small book, his mind was suddenly taken back to the day he'd found Jaspin looking at one of his older journals. The boy had held it up, displaying the portraits Hiccup had drawn of his best friend. That memory triggered another one, of him sitting in 'their' cove, drawing a sketch of Toothless' head in the dirt.

The memory of that day was a favorite of his; the true start of their friendship. It also brought his current failure back into focus. That special day, last autumn, had sparked so many questions in his mind. He'd anticipated asking Toothless those questions and getting answers that would shed much light on the nature of his friend and all dragons. Now he knew it might take him months or even years to get those answers, if he could get them at all. He didn't want to have those questions sitting between them, taunting him and his inability to converse with the Fury.

Why, Hiccup wondered. When Toothless saw him draw a picture of his head in the sand, why had he taken a sapling in his mouth and made those huge, looping lines around him? And why had he been upset when he accidentally stepped on one of those lines? Had it been mimicry? Curiosity? Or had it been an attempt at communica-

His eyes snapped open and the hairs on his arms rose in goose bumps. "Mouths in dust," he whispered, awestruck by how simple the solution was.

When Hiccup was first being taught to write, his father had told him that runes were spoken words set in permanent form. To demonstrate, he had placed a single, huge finger on the tabletop between them and drawn a few lines in the dust. Dust was a common element in the Haddock household, then as now. Hiccup, too young to understand at that point and wanting only to go outside to explore, had retorted, "Mouths in dust. Sounds like so much fun."

"Toothless, I have it!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Oh, why didn't I see it before?" He sat up, grinning up at the dragon's puzzled expression. "We can write!"

The Night Fury obviously didn't understand. He gave a questioning grunt. "Runes," Hiccup explained. Toothless' still didn't seem to understand. "You know, writing." Still there was no reaction. "Don't you guys have writing?" Hiccup suddenly pictured dragons holding charcoal sticks, scribbling on cave walls and realized what a stupid question it was. "No, of course you wouldn't. Never mind. Look." He took out his journal, happy to remove it from where it had been poking him. He opened it to a page of notes and drawings and held it up. "You see the pictures?"

"Yes."

For a moment Hiccup froze, suddenly struck by the realization that, in their own limited way, they could already speak to one another. But there could be no communicating complex ideas in both directions. It astounded him how exhilarating, comforting and disappointing it could feel, all at the same time. He caught his breath and pushed on.

"Each of these little marks represents a sound." He noticed Toothless squinting at the page. "Yeah, this might be a little small for your eyes, but we can deal with that in a minute." He pointed to a specific string of characters. "This word is 'dragon.' It's made of six little marks. Those six marks in that particular order make the word 'dragon.'" He thought a moment. "Ok, how do you speak the word for 'dragon' in your language?"

Toothless warbled a brief note.

"All right. When I speak Norse, the word I use to say the same thing is 'dragon.' That word is made up of several separate sounds." He pointed to the word on the page again. "Each of those marks stands for a specific sound. When those sounds are made in the order that they are showing here, they make the word 'dragon.'"

He had to go a step farther before Toothless seemed to understand. He found a small sandy patch were the grass didn't seem to care to grow and started making marks with a forefinger. He hoped Toothless would make a better student than he had initially. Once the dragon seemed to grasp the idea, Hiccup smoothed away the characters he'd drawn and pointed to the blank area. "Now you try it."

Toothless backed away, looking around for something. He didn't seem pleased at the limited resources offered at the top of a sparsely covered islet. He reared up against one of the gnarly trees and took one of its branches in his mouth. Hiccup immediately foresaw a problem with that idea.

"Toothless, wait! There's a better way." He pointed down at the sandy patch. "Let me show you."

The Fury returned to the spot and watched carefully. Hiccup held up his hand and extended one finger. He used it to trace the runes for 'dragon' in the dust. "See if you can do that."

Yet another problem stood in their way, but it took the young man several minutes to realize it. Toothless reached forward with his forepaw and tried to mimic the motions he had seen. His results were rather sloppy, as he was dragging the wide pad of his paw through the loose material rather than a single claw. Hiccup tried to correct him by holding up his hand and showing how he was folding all his fingers but one. With that one, he demonstrated the rune again.

When Toothless scratched several parallel lines with his claws, botching yet another effort, Hiccup said, "Wait a minute. Toothless, may I look at your claws?"

Neither of them had anticipated a lesson in the anatomy of a Night Fury that day, but that's what they found themselves engaged in. The dragon held up one forearm, the heavy limb and powerful claws held still so his diminutive friend could examine them. Hiccup first looked the structure over. He noticed that of the four claws on the forepaw, the innermost one was set slightly apart, just as his own thumb was. If that was the equivalent of a thumb, then that was how the dragon could grasp things.

Next he looked at the other three claws. That's when he realized something extraordinary. They weren't really claws, in the sense that a bird or a cat has claws. These hard, sharp digits had a bendable joint in the middle. When he looked very closely he saw a tiny network of scales around where the joint bent. It let Toothless use his claws the way any animal would, to dig or fight but also let him grasp things with much more confidence and security.

So if he could grasp things, why wasn't he able to extend a single claw to draw in the dirt? When he tried forcing the claws to fold down, he found that they were joined internally. Folding any one claw down forced all the claws to fold. Toothless could no more extend a single claw than Hiccup could touch his elbows to his ears.

"Well, great," Hiccup muttered. "Fine." He looked around the top of the islet, searching as Toothless had moments ago. "That's fine." He got up and hobbled over to the tree his dragon had been about to de-limb and broke off a small dead branch. He held it up for Toothless to see. "Try using this. Hold it so." He grasped it like the handle of a butter churn and demonstrated scratching a rune in the sand.

Another surprising lesson in Night Fury bodily mechanics resulted. Toothless could not fold his bendable claw joints completely over into the pad of his paw. The stick was so thin that no matter how much he tried, he could not firmly grasp it. "You're kidding me!" He looked at how closely the claws came to each other and to the pad. He looked up at Toothless with a disturbed expression. He held up his own arm. "Can you grip this?" he asked.

Toothless carefully wrapped his claws around his arm and tried to hold on. The tightest his claws would fold still allowed Hiccup's thin forearm to move within his grip.

"Toothless," he whispered. "How did you catch Astrid?" He gazed at those beautiful green eyes and wondered at how much closer her death had been than he'd known. "How could you have held her?"

The Night Fury simply reached out and gently wrapped his claws around Hiccup's good leg. The thicker mass of his leg muscles could feel a firm, solid grip before he let go. "Oh wow. I had no idea."

Hiccup shook off the disturbed feeling he'd gotten and concentrated on their writing lessons. "Ok, so, we'll get you a bigger stick..." It took some searching before a limb of sufficient size was found. Toothless bit off the end to square it up, held it the way his rider had shown him and ran smack into their next problem.

The dragon could hold the stick easily enough. It was of sufficient size and the right length. When Hiccup repeated the movements he used to write the runes for 'dragon' in the dirt, the dragon did his best to copy those movements. His arm, wrist and forepaw, however, were jointed the way any quadruped's would be. Moving his writing stick in line with his body wasn't too bad. That was essentially a digging motion that any four-legged creature could manage. But any side to side motion tended to throw him off. Hiccup ignored the runes and asked Toothless to make simple squares and circles. As he did, he watched his forearm and wrist, realizing the problem. Toothless simply wasn't built to hold something long and thin in an upright position.

"Stop," he muttered. "This is... no." He stood up, wobbled slightly and stepped back a bit. "There has to be... I mean..." He shook his head and pressed thin fingers against his temples. Staring at his friend's foreleg, he frowned as he turned the problem over in his mind. "You need... something... umm."

Suddenly his eyes widened. "Wait. Wait, I think..." He stepped back towards the Night Fury. He picked up the stick Toothless had been trying to write with and laid one hand on his friend's foreleg. Easing himself into a sitting position, he slid his hand down the leg to the forepaw. He ran his fingers over the paw and its claws, learning how they spread naturally while Toothless was in a standing position. "Lift it just off the ground, please."

The dragon did as he was asked. He didn't react when Hiccup shoved the stick under his paw at an angle that wedged it between his 'thumb' and the other claws. "Can you grip that?" The request was granted with ease. He noticed that while the stick was basically round, the center of Toothless' grip was more triangular as it was formed by his 'thumb claw', the hard, leathery pad of his paw and the other three claws.

"Yeah," he mumbled to himself. "If I shape that just right, you could hold it better." He leaned back, took out his knife and began whittling on the stick, trimming its sides down to the three sided shape he wanted. It took little time to get the result he wanted. He laid it down on the ground. "Can you pick that up?"

The dragon's claws easily scooped up the stick and held it in his paw. He examined the fit. "Does that feel secure? Can you scratch in the dirt with it?" Toothless looked at the stick he held for a moment, then tried to hold it point down to scribe lines in the dust. "No, no. I'm sorry, I meant for you to use the end with your hand, er, foot? Paw?" Hiccup shook his head, setting aside that particular distraction. "Hold it as if you were standing on it. And pretend there's a hook on the end that points down. I know there isn't, but there will be soon."

Understanding lit the Fury's eyes and he held his paw in the same natural position he would if he were standing on it. With the three sided stick firmly in his grip, he trailed the tip across the palette of loose soil, leaving a rather thick yet clear line behind. "Yes!" Elated something of the days' work was turning out the way he'd hoped, he hugged the dragon's neck. He marveled at the satisfied purr he could feel coming from within. "Come on, let's go to my forge. I'll make one out of some good metal stock for you."

Energized by his small companion's infectious delight, Toothless happily took them back out over the waters and headed for Berk.

* * *

Dawn came late the next day as heavy clouds had rolled in, threatening rain and thunder. Hiccup woke to an empty house. Without his father or his dragon to prod him he took longer than usual to get dressed and find something to eat. He wound up breakfasting on cold biscuits and a cup of water while sitting on the front steps of his house.

He never really worried about Toothless when he disappeared. Even a dragon incapable of flying by himself was unlikely to run into trouble anywhere on the island. But this morning Hiccup found himself thinking about how their previous day had ended.

With the Night Fury providing a nice controlled flame for heat, he'd taken some leftover round stock Gobber had given him from the training arena's caging and began making a 'pencil' for Toothless. Using the stick he'd carved for a template, he'd cut it off at the right length and formed the sides to fit the dragon's hand...paw?

Once again Hiccup disrupted his own line of thought. It seemed so small a thing. What to call the end of his dragon's foreleg? It obviously wasn't a hand. Calling it a forefoot seemed ridiculous when he considered what the Fury could do with it. And paw had animalistic overtones that bothered him. The dragon was a four-footed being. When he walked or ran, he used those... paws for locomotion like an animal would. But he'd also used Hiccup's newest invention in a way any human would.

Well, any human confined to a hands and knees position, anyway.

Toothless had certainly taken to it with enthusiasm. Even after the sun had gone down, the dragon had been practicing his runes in the loose dirt of a clearing well behind their house. Hiccup had insisted that they keep this particular development out of sight of any other Vikings for the time being. The Fury hadn't seemed concerned about it but had given in to his rider's wishes. He'd left him, still using the bent and rounded tip of his metal 'pencil' to scratch rune after rune in the dust.

Brushing the crumbs from his tunic, he made his way to Gobber's forge. Ingifast needed more nails. It had turned out that Stoick's decision to send 'Rorik' on Berk's first trade mission in generations hadn't taken into account that it was not in the best of shape. The shipwright had insisted that it be refitted and strengthened for the extended voyage. The mission was postponed until it could be reworked, and the reworking had to wait for Gobber to make new nails and fittings.

The master smith greeted him cheerfully and set him immediately to work. Ingifast wouldn't need nearly as many nails as they had made last time, so Gobber would take care of that. He set his apprentice to creating the new fittings the ship would need. As he got to work, Hiccup immediately noticed Gobber had started construction of a new forge based on his design. It was set near the largest door so his Boneknapper George could easily have access to it. He smiled at that as he began his work.

It wasn't long before he started having minor problems concentrating on what he was doing. Gobber was one of the few adults in the village who had taken to keeping a dragon and losing all his animosity toward them in general. Hiccup kept wondering what the man would say if he learned what Toothless had shown him. Would he accept dragons as people? Would he believe they could talk to one another, or that with enough time a Viking might learn to understand their speech? As tolerant as the man was, Hiccup was nowhere near certain the smith would be able to see dragons the way he now did.

Thinking of dragons, Hiccup realized that George was not around. Looking up, he did notice several Terrors perched on the rafters of the smithy. Most of them looked to be asleep. It dawned on him that he had become so used to having at least one dragon around him most of the day that when he was only around other villagers he felt a strange kind of loneliness. And, oddly, Terrible Terrors didn't seem to count since Toothless had told him that those smallest of dragons couldn't speak.

"Something wrong, lad?"

"Wha?" Hiccup looked at his teacher, surprised. "What's... umm..."

Gobber pointed to the piece he'd been working on. "You seem a bit distracted. That cleat has been cold black for almost a minute now with nary a hammer's kiss to work it. What's on your mind?"

Very old habits took hold and set Hiccup to dissembling. "Oh, nothing really. I was just... wondering..." For one startling moment he imagined spilling it all to his mentor, relating everything he'd been told so far by Toothless and letting the axe fall where it may. But the old fears were just as strong as the old habits and he banished such thoughts immediately. He looked up at the rafters and saw his way out. "Could Terrible Terrors be trained like other dragons?" He pointed to Gobber's new forge. "I mean they're too small to do much, but maybe they could, I don't know... carry messages. Or something."

"Messages?" Gobber set the rods he was working back into the fire. "What kind of messages?"

"Uh, well, you know, any kind. Like, if someone got hurt on the other side of the island, they could send a Terror back to get help."

Gobber just blinked at him. For several moments, he simply stared. Then he slowly nodded. "Ya know, that's actually a good idea." He seemed to turn the idea over in his mind and like it more each second. "Hiccup, my boy, that's an excellent idea!" A broad grin came over his face, lifting the ends of his long mustache. "If they're trainable, we could get them to carry messages anywhere!" He gazed up the rafters. "Ah, I knew they had to be good for something other than begging for scraps and bothering the cats."

For an idea he had pulled out of nowhere to cover what he'd been really thinking, Hiccup was amazed to realize Gobber was right. Terrors were much like non-mousing cats, harmless yet useless. If they could, in fact, be trained they might be of considerable benefit. And maybe acceptance of them as messengers would help in the village accepting dragons in general.

"It would be so easy," Gobber went on, the idea thoroughly taking hold. "A body could write out a few words on a scrap of parchment and have a Terror take it to someone else." His eyes widened. "Or, or something simpler. Why carry parchment and charcoal when you could give 'em a painted rock? Red or injury, blue for being lost, maybe green for a beached whale that needs butchering right away."

Hiccup nodded, also wondering if sending messages with Terrors might somehow ease across the idea that other dragons could communicate. If he gave it enough thought, he might be able to turn this unexpected idea to the dragon's benefit.

As interested as Gobber was with the idea, he still insisted that they get back to work. Ingifast needed what they were working on and getting involved in another project would only delay them and upset the shipwright.

Both men went at their chores with new gusto, mostly to finish as soon as possible so they could get on to other, more interesting things. Hiccup left shortly after noon, saying he wanted to think about how they would go about training the little dragons. As he walked up the path toward his house, he left Gobber trying to coax the sleeping Terrors down from his rafters with bits of salted fish.

Hiccup went straight to his house first, intent on finding Toothless. The Night Fury wasn't there, but his father was. Stoick was working on cooking up a large pot of salmon stew, one of the few things he could cook well enough to be considered truly edible.

"If you're looking for lunch, this won't be ready until tonight."

"Uh, no dad. I'm actually looking for Toothless."

Stoick's expression became utterly impassive. "I haven't seen him." He turned back to filleting the large fish he'd laid out on the table.

"Ah. Ok, then." Hiccup backed out the door and took off limping for the clearing. It was only ten minutes' walk from his house, but before he got there he noticed something. He could smell a faint odor of smoke. Curious and just a little worried, he burst into the clearing where he'd left his dragon.

"What?" he whispered.

The clearing had been transformed. Instead of a lush spot of tall grass and wildflowers it was a flat, burned slate of ashes and dust. He stood at the edge, bewildered. What had happened? As he stepped out into the open, he got his answer.

Every square foot of exposed topsoil had been plowed. The furrows were all identical, though some were obviously done at the start of the learning process. He found others that showed the result of intense practice and single-minded effort. There were footprints everywhere, too. Some of the furrows were flattened by careless paws as early trials were ignored in favor or newer, better ones.

Toothless had burned off every bit of growth in the clearing and etched the exposed surface dirt with the runes that spelled 'dragon.' Some looked like a giant child had drawn them, misshapen and hardly readable. Others showed clearer lines, more precise markings. 'Dragon' had been the only word Hiccup had found time to teach his dragon, and it seemed Toothless had dedicated himself to learning to write it. It was scratched in the dirt perhaps a hundred times, surrounding him with an immense flock of runic dragons.

Part of him wanted to panic. If anyone else saw this, what would they think? Would they make any connection between the words and the footprints? Would they think it a strange prank? Or would they simply be annoyed that a dragon had ruined a rather nice spot on the island with fire?

Hiccup ran back to his house, but Toothless still wasn't there. Where could he be? He went back by the smithy, but not even Gobber was there now. He supposed there was one other obvious place he should look, but as he headed in that direction he happened to spot Thunderguts. She was sleeping in a sunny spot some small distance from Fishlegs' workshop. He approached her warily but found her eyes to be open when he got near enough to see. A quick check proved no one else was nearby.

"Hello Thunderguts."

She blinked.

"I'm looking for my dragon, Toothless. Have you seen him?"

The Gronckle surprised him by grunting and lifting her head. She gazed off in a particular direction before letting her head thump back to the ground. It was as he'd expected. The direction she'd indicated was where their cove lay. He thanked her, going so far as to cautiously place one hand on her chin and give her a pleasant scratching. She seemed pleased with his attentions.

It took longer to get to the cove than it used to. The way was not easy for him anymore. He'd managed to find a slightly easier path, one that didn't put too much stress on his false leg but it still took longer to make his way to their special place. He wasn't really worried about the well being of his friend but there were things he definitely wanted to discuss with him.

The smell warned him. Even so, the sight was stunning. From the spot in the rocks where he usually made his entrance into the cove, he could see most of it easily. There hadn't been much grass here to start. Most of the loose dirt had simply been layered with moss and other ground cover. Now all of it was gone. Scorch marks and lines covered every inch that Toothless' pencil could penetrate. There was a major difference between the 'work' the dragon had done at the clearing and what he'd done at the cove, though. There were no runes to be seen here, not a single one. But there were pictures everywhere.

Pictures and paw prints lead from the entrance across the bottom of the cove. Like the first runes he'd done, his first pictures were shaky, hard to discern. As the Fury had continued his practice he'd gotten better. Much better, in fact. Hiccup could only assume the dragon's night vision had allowed him to work non-stop through the darkest hours.

Stunned, he slowly walked through an amazing gallery of dragon art. Some scrawls were quiet abstract, some very obvious. He saw representations of trees and fish and houses. One he stopped by could have been a cat, or perhaps a squirrel. And there were dragons everywhere. Many different breeds were now living there in the dust beneath his foot. There had to be at least two dozen dragons surrounding him.

This was more than mouths in dust. It looked like Toothless had created a whole world in the dust. It seemed the dragon was full of stories and wanted to tell them all at once.

He finally spotted the hunched black form, its head down and one arm slowly carving new lines. As he watched, Toothless made a correction by putting his 'drawing paw' down and reaching out with his other to pat the ground smooth in one small spot. Then he took his pencil and remade the lines to his satisfaction.

Hiccup shook his head in amazement. Careful not to tread on any of the drawings, despite ample evidence that Toothless had done so quite often, he made his way toward his friend. When he called to him the Fury raised his head, warbled a happy note and returned to finishing his current effort.

"What have you been up to, Toothless?" He put a hand on the dragon's shoulder and studied the latest work.

It was quite confusing at first. There were several drawings clustered together in one area where the his friend was working. His eyes roved over the scattered lines, looking for familiar patterns. He noticed a small drawing of Toothless, seemingly in flight. His wings were spread and his tail streamed straight out behind him. On his back was a small lump that Hiccup assumed was a puny Viking the Fury had befriended. He gazed around some more, noticing a far larger and unpleasantly familiar figure.

Six eyes, a cavernous mouth and a size that made all other dragons fearful, the Red Death was unmistakable. He realized Toothless had drawn that enormous monster in flight, chasing Toothless and him down from the sky. It seemed obvious that it was a moment that held as much importance to his friend as it did to Hiccup.

It was certainly the work of a beginner. Proportions were skewed in places, many lines that were meant to be straight weren't. Considering that Toothless had been drawing less than a day, Hiccup thought it was an extremely good effort. He had no doubts that the Fury's artistic endeavors would only improve as time went on.

He looked around at the many drawings around them. "This is incredible, buddy. You're really getting good at this. We should have you writing in no time."

Toothless shook his head and grumble-growled at him. He leaped a few paces away, scanning the ground. When he found a spot he liked, he used his empty paw to wipe out the previous drawings and began dragging his pencil's tip in the loose earth once more. He quickly sketched out three small symbols. The first looked mostly like a person, but there was a significant difference. This person had one leg that ended in a simple line from its knee down. He assumed it represented himself. The next icon was a slim shape, pointed at one end and flaring at the other. Fish, he decided. The last one was obviously Toothless, drawn in a sitting position.

He thought it was rather cute until he realized what that short string of symbols actually meant. It was a sentence, a message in pictographs. "Hiccup fish Toothless."

His dragon was asking to be fed.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission


	12. Joy in motion

.

Broken

Chapter 12: Joy in motion

It was seldom that Jaspin could claim to feel happy and unhappy at the same time. As he rode on the bow of his father's ship, Rorik, that was exactly how he felt.

To look at him, no one would have known there was any heaviness in his heart. At the moment it was sheer joy showing on his face. The motion of Rorik's bow as she plunged through the choppy waters a day's voyage from Berk gave him a thrill that simply couldn't compare to anything else in the world. At least not until his first flight on a dragon's back. The endless lift and fall of the bow gave him the sensation of taking huge leaps over the frothy green-blue sea. He imagined he was a giant, stepping from island to island in strides that would make Odin gasp. Sometimes he pictured himself as a seagull, skimming the white tips of the waves then dropping into the troughs to hide, cresting the watery hills to shriek at nearby sailors then disappearing before they could spot him.

Behind him Grumblemud was conferring with his father about where to drop their nets. Earlier that morning they had failed to catch anything and the current conditions didn't look to have improved much. He knew he should be paying more attention to their discussion, learning how to read the waters, to find where the fish were hiding. While he knew he would one day be a fisherman like his father, it was hard to concentrate on such tedious things as fish craft and weather signs. This was the last time he and his father would have Rorik to go fishing. As soon as they returned she would be beached and become Ingifast's project, refitting her for the upcoming trading voyage.

That thought brought the unhappiness back to Jaspin. As owner and captain of Rorik, Hogknee Vapnfjord would be going with Gobber and the others on the voyage. Having not yet reached his fifteenth birthday, Jaspin would not be able to go with them. Not only would he miss his father, he would probably not be allowed on other ships to go fishing. His love of sailing and of fishing would have to be put aside as he apprenticed with Kabbi, Berk's master tanner.

If it weren't for the freedom and companionship that Bitequick offered him, Jaspin might have rebelled against such a fate. He knew that making leather from sheep and deer hides was as important to the village as fishing was, but the boredom of staying in one particular place while he worked would have driven him mad. The lifeline his Nadder offered from that horror was worth more than any coin he might earn from leather working.

Rorik's bow bit hard into a large wave and jarred Jaspin from his ankles to his hips. He tightened his grip on the cleats his father had installed near the bow just for him to use. Nearly getting tossed over the ship's nose into the freezing waters wasn't enough to persuade Jaspin to stay near the mast as his father had so often told him. Even the occasional clout across the ear hadn't been enough. The compromise had been to install hand holds to give him a way to stay relatively safe.

As Rorik swiftly climbed the wave, her sails full to overflowing with the stiff northerly winds, Jaspin grinned wildly. This was his favorite part. For a moment, all there was before his eyes was the sloping wall of water that Rorik's wooden hide broke into streaming white froth. The groan of the hull and the creak of the mast didn't quite cover the distressed moans coming from Stonetoss, one of the very few villagers who never managed to get their sea legs.

The ship crested the wave and Jaspin couldn't contain a whoop of joy as he suddenly felt weightless. He held on as tight as he could to the cleats and let his boots lift a few inches off the deck. Salt spray dusted his face and hair while the roar of the bow cutting through the water filled his ears. There was a solid 'whump' as the ship settled and his weight was once more firmly planted on the deck. He laughed, wishing he could go higher, stay up longer.

He could, of course. Bitequick gave him that, and more.

A sour mutter came from behind him. He couldn't make out what had been said beyond the word 'crazy.'

"What was that?" asked his father in a commanding tone. "You have something to say, Lunchtoss?" That was the name Spitelout had given the man many years back when it was learned that Stonetoss would inevitably give his last meal up to feed the fish whenever he went out on the water. It had stuck with him, much to his dismay.

"Ain't right." Stonetoss said softly. "Boy like that shoulda been born a bird."

The idea sat well with Jaspin, but for a single detail. Before anyone else could reply, he piped up. "Or a dragon!"

Stonetoss glared at him. "You, born a dragon?" He snorted with disdain. "You'da had your head taken off ten times over before you reached ten winters!"

Hogknee was slim and quick and known to be deadly with a dagger. He proved it once more by leaping over the rowing benches to where Stonetoss sat draped half over the rail. His dagger, one of Gobber's best blades, was in his hand and buried a thumb's length into the rail near Stonetoss' left arm. "Threats, fish feeder?" He thrust his face into the older man's, his grimace marked by the four missing teeth in the center of his smile. That was Stonetoss' work, from when they'd been younger. The rock, powerfully thrown and skillfully aimed, had taken Hogknee's teeth and given Stonetoss his name. But it had also earned the larger Viking a lesson in picking your opponent wisely. Hogknee had left him bleeding in the dust from a vicious pummeling. From that point on, his gap-toothed smile was a constant reminder to Stonetoss of his mistake. "You threatening my son, milk belly?"

Now it was Stonetoss who showed anger. "You know I ain't! But we're supposed to be out here for fish, not for him to jump and holler like a madman!" An accusing finger was aimed at Jaspin, who had frozen at his father's sudden move. "Where's the fish? I don't see a single fin on the deck!"

That turned the argument rather well for Stonetoss. Hogknee knew it, too. Both men had scored, but it was now time for Rorik's captain to deal with the failure the older man had thrown in his face. He let his lips close over his smile and nodded at the point made. "You're right." He jerked his dagger loose and sheathed it. "Grumblemud! North by east, back toward Berk. Ludin, Buckets, reef the sail!" He waved a hand at the rest of the crew. "Oars out!"

It was a minor squabble, Jaspin knew. No one would mention it again. But the sullen glance Stonetoss gave him before he took up his oar bothered him. It was the same with the others who had stomach trouble out on the waves. Jaspin's exuberance irritated them at least as much as their seasickness did. Even some of the villagers who shared Jaspin's joy of sailing found him a bit overwhelming at times. But he couldn't help it. He loved the feeling the sea gave him. And he was not always that good at keeping his feelings hidden.

He was big enough to pull an oar, so Jaspin took up his seat and began working with the rest to head toward other fishing grounds. If they were going North by East then they were headed toward the Snapspines, a ragged line of small islands close to Berk that often sheltered schools of fish during the stormy months. During calmer seasons, like now, some stray fish could still be found there. A good fisherman like his father would know how to find them, but only if the fish were there to be found. If they weren't, they might have to go home empty. The trip was only meant to last a few days so there were only provisions aboard for a week. There wasn't enough time for second guessing.

The rowing was hard work, but that wasn't what bothered Jaspin. It was the tedium and the repetitiveness of stroke after stroke of the oars. He longed to be soaring high above the water on Bitequick's back, letting her do whatever wild acrobatics she had a mind to perform while he held on tight. He let thoughts of flying with his dragon fill the hours and tried to ignore Stonetoss' presence.

By nightfall they'd made it to the closest of the Snapspines. They beached and clambered out, grateful for the rest. It didn't take long to start a cook fire and take the evening meal before they passed out, either on the pebbly beach or on Rorik's deck. Jaspin was asleep within moments of wedging himself into the point of the ship's bow

* * *

Hogknee was getting worried. It was well past noon the next day and while they'd managed to snag a few straggling cod, it wasn't enough to make the effort worthwhile. Empty nets breed empty bellies, as the saying went. While Berk wasn't starving just yet, they did need every fishing trip to bring in at least enough to fill the stewpots for a few days. He scanned the horizon in all directions, looking for any sign of where there might be something worth chasing.

Jaspin helped on the oars when they were needed, or watched quietly when they were under sail. He saw dragons flying high and far off and would watch them when he could. He tried to identify the breeds from a distance but had no way to tell if he was right.

"S'not your fault," Grumblemud told his father. The stout Viking waved his heavily muscled arm at the sea in general. "Cannot catch fish ain't there."

Hogknee just grunted. He pointed at the far end of the Snapspines. "We've got time, we'll try that side." Jaspin sighed as he realized that meant more rowing.

By the time Rorik was in place and the nets were dropped, Jaspin was ready to head back to camp or sail back to Berk. He had never rowed so much in his life. It was part of his deal, however. He'd asked his father if he could work an oar on this trip so as to claim a portion of the haul. Hogknee had given him an odd look and asked why he needed his own fish when he was being fed at home. "For Bitequick," he answered. "I want to do something special for her." His father had thought it a waste to give fish to a creature that could easily feed itself, but finally agreed. He thought it would be a good lesson in being a hard worker and gaining from one's efforts.

As Jaspin rested and Rorik dragged her nets under sail, he glanced off toward the main island of Berk. He immediately noticed a dragon in flight. He also noticed it was flying low and straight toward them. So did a few others.

"Is that one of ours?" someone asked.

Jaspin cringed. If it was, he had a suspicion he knew which one it would be.

The whole crew was watching now as the dragon made its way toward them. Before long, another concern was voiced, this time by Stonetoss. "That thing gonna scare the fish off."

Hogknee gave Jaspin an unhappy look, which the boy tried to ignore. "We agreed you would leave your beast at home."

He hated it when his father called Bitequick a beast. "I did. I told her to stay home." He pointed at the approaching dragon. "Besides, that could be any dragon."

The crew continued watching the approaching figure. "Don't see no one riding it," said one. "Might be a wild one, looking for an easy meal," replied another.

When it became obvious that the dragon was a Deadly Nadder, Stonetoss growled at Jaspin. "Your pretty lizard's gonna cost us any chance a catching something!"

"She would never!" In his heart, though, he had doubts of his own. Was it Bitequick? If it was, why was she out here? Was she trying to scare off the fish or looking for a free meal?

"Warn it off, son," said Hogknee. "Make it go back."

Jaspin looked at him, perplexed by such a command. "How?"

"I don't care how, just do it!"

Having no better ideas, the boy waved his arms. He desperately hoped the dragon, whoever it was, would get the idea and leave. He was surprised to see the Nadder bank away and fly back the way it had come. A few of the others aboard were equally astonished.

Hogknee called them all back to their jobs. "All right, that's enough, back to... Jaspin!"

The Nadder had turned around and was flying low toward Rorik again.

The boy jumped up onto a rowing bench and began waving his arms furiously, still not entirely convinced the Nadder was his. While he could tell Bitequick from any other Deadly Nadder, it was harder to distinguish the pattern of colors on the creature's brightly colored hide from a distance. The sun being almost directly behind it didn't help, either. Surely she could see him trying to wave her off...

The dragon eventually banked away and flew off again, but only after it had gotten closer to Rorik and her crew than before. Jaspin watched it go, wondering what had gotten into it, and who it actually was.

Less than a minute later his stomach clenched into a miserable knot. The Nadder had turned and was once more flying directly toward them.

His father's voice was one of many ringing in his ears, complaining of the dragon's errant behavior and demanding that Jaspin do something to correct it. As if he had the slightest idea how to accomplish that. But as the Nadder flew toward them, he started to get a strange feeling. Something was seriously amiss, and they were all overlooking it. Why would any dragon be doing this?

Jaspin's eye dropped to the waters directly below the dragon. There he got his first clue. He planted his hands on the rail and stuck his head over the side, looking straight down, and got his second. Still ignoring the complaints and threats being tossed about by everyone else, he turned to the mast and clambered up it far enough to see what had caught his eye. Finally, he understood.

"Dad, you're right! Bitequick _is_ scaring the fish!" His admission caused just enough of a lull in the angry chorus for the crew to hear the rest of his statement. He pointed out toward what he now firmly believed was his winged friend. "Right _toward_ us!"

A moment's stunned silence was followed immediately by the entire crew crowding the starboard rail to witness the phenomenon first hand. His father grasped what was happening only a moment later.

"The shallow water! They can't help but see it and they can't dive here, they can only run away from it!" He turned and bellowed in his most commanding voice. "HEAD WEST!"

Bitequick broke off one last time while the crew got the ship positioned. Her last run toward Rorik was preceded by dozens of silvery motes streaking through the water beneath the hull. "Bring 'em in!" Hogknee shouted.

For such shallow water, it was a good haul and they were fairly pleased with the results. The Nadder circled overhead, croaking and chittering at them. Jaspin waved to her and shouted her name. He didn't notice the strange mix of emotions showing on the faces of the crew.

Deadly Nadders like Bitequick were not good at hovering, so he wasn't surprised when she left them behind and headed north. With their fairly large heads and relatively small wings, staying aloft without an updraft of some kind was harder work for the species. She didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave, though. She climbed to a considerable height as she headed away and he could see her head swinging back and forth. He watched her closely, wondering if his suspicion was right.

It was. A few minutes' flight north, she dove toward the water once more. Hogknee and the rest watched her closely as she once again started making her way toward Rorik. He glanced at his son, but Jaspin's eyes were only for Bitequick. "Well, she's rounding up some more. Let's go!" Grumblemud worked the tiller and Rorik turned toward the approaching dragon.

They worked until a few hours short of sundown. It wasn't the position of the sun or the approaching dark that forced them to stop. Bitequick had apparently forced every fish in the protective arms of the Snapspines into Rorik's nets. She finally made her last pass with only a few stragglers running before her. As they were brought aboard, Jaspin grabbed a large Icelandic Cod and turned to his father. "Can I have this one?"

Hogknee eyed the fish in his son's hands, gazed up momentarily at the dragon, then smiled his gaping smile and nodded. Jaspin called to her, waving his prize. As she swooped over the gunwales he tossed the gasping fish into the air. A few of the crew ducked while others laughed and cheered to the wet crunch of the dragon's treat being caught and devoured instantly. The boy smiled and waved as she flew back home to wait for them.

The favorable wind had diminished and they would need to row to get home before dark. As they bent their backs to the task, Jaspin sneaked a glance at Stonetoss. The man seemed mollified by the considerable haul of fish they had. Each member of this trip would have extra pay, as fish or coin, to spend the next day. The only disadvantage Jaspin could see was that with her deck covered in their catch, she weighed considerably more than when they'd left and the rowing was slow and hard.

They were in sight of the docks just before sundown. Grumblemud lifted a horn to his lips and blew two short notes followed by a long one. Within minutes everyone in Berk would be on the docks to help unload and prepare the catch. Much would be salted, some eaten that night and some left to age a day before making stew. Before they touched the dock, Jaspin gave his father a tired grin and asked, "How much is Bitequick's share going to be?"

Hogknee stared at him a moment, aware of the attention of the crew. He looked at the massive amount of food spread across Rorik's deck and made his decision.

"She's a dragon. She can feed herself."

Jaspin frowned, but he also noticed a gleam in his father's eye.

"Since she's your dragon, I'll double your share. Who you give it to is your affair."

He helped with the unloading, a smile on his face. His heart, though, still harbored misery. Each fish taken off Rorik's deck brought him one second closer to the moment she would go to Ingifast. The end of the day would mean his father's departure was one day closer, as well. In all, the trip had gone better than anyone had hoped. But he could not keep his thoughts from becoming clouds and rain.

Word of Bitequick's performance spread as soon as Rorik touched the docks. Jaspin soon heard others wondering if other dragons would do the same for future fishing excursions. Hogknee proudly presented him with a basket brimming with fish, pay for both their efforts. Before he could take the bounty to his friend, his father pulled him aside for a quiet word.

"Stoick's made a decision. Those old enough to start dragon training within the year will go instead to Mord, to learn sword, spear and shield. You'll be in the first group."

Jaspin stood in silent confusion for several moments. "But... I thought I was to work with Kabbi. I thought I was to learn tanning and leather craft."

His father nodded. "You will. You can learn more than one thing, you know." He clapped his son on the shoulder. "You'll finally get to learn how to be a warrior, like you've always wanted." He leaned close and lowered his voice. "And now maybe you can stop sneaking out with my blade and whacking at trees."

Jaspin's eyes threatened to push his brows clear up to the top of his head. "You knew?"

Hogknee chuckled. "Aye. You're my son. I knew you would, because I did the same thing with my father's own battle axe. At least you didn't have a weapon with a wooden handle to break."

Jaspin's eyebrows suffered yet another displacement. His father nodded to the unasked question in his son's eyes. "Now, go see to your dragon. And give her my thanks for a fruitful voyage." He nodded and started to walk off, but stopped a few paces away, a serious look on his face.

"Why are we training for combat? We don't fight dragons any more."

The sudden change in Hogknee's expression put a chill wind up the boy's back. "There's more to fight in this world besides dragons, son."

* * *

The sight of Rorik beached near Ingifast's workshop depressed Jaspin mightily. His father had told him it would be good for their family, this trading mission. Their ship would get a refit that would improve her and prolong her life. They would also be paid from the village's coffers for the use of their ship. While Hogknee was gone, Jaspin and his mother would be able to buy whatever they needed even though they couldn't fish. He knew all these things were true, but to see Rorik, her mast removed and her hull upside down on the beach, bothered him terribly. It was almost like looking at a friend who'd been injured.

He'd gone looking for his dragon late the previous night, wanting to give her the reward she'd helped them earn. As sometimes happened, she'd gone off on her own and was nowhere to be found. Jaspin had set the basket of fish inside his house and taken care of his own hunger.

Early the next morning, his friend had reappeared and was roosting on the roof. He'd fed Bitequick while praising her constantly and giving her lots of attention. It seemed to him that she knew she'd done well. She also seemed more affectionate than usual as she ate.

Now they were on the opposite shore, out of sight of Ingifast and his boatyard. Bitequick was splashing about in the cold sea water, washing the fish slime from her muzzle and preening as she so often did. He contented himself with watching the sky; the clouds, the birds, the occasional dragon. It always changed, and if he looked hard enough and long enough he might see something utterly new, something fantastic.

As he watched, a shadow passed over him and down the beach toward the Nadder. An instant later he saw Asgeirr, Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare. The great red dragon circled several times before touching down on the pebbly beach near Bitequick. Jaspin watched them as they grunted and growled at each other and then began splashing in the water together. It looked like they were having quiet a lot of fun.

Of course if Asgeirr was there, Snotlout was probably not far behind. He kept still, listening. Sure enough, he could hear someone trying to sneak over the coarse terrain and not really succeeding. Every chance Snotlout got, he would try to scare the younger kids in the village. He never seemed to realize that his approach was usually too noisy, or that the presence of his dragon pretty much spoiled any chance of catching others unaware.

Jaspin heard two heavy, running steps, followed by a grunt and the heavy impact of Snotlout's boots next to his shoulders where he lay on the shore. The older boy's shout sounded menacing but was voiced almost a full second after he'd landed. He suddenly wondered if Spitelout's son really meant to scare anyone or simply did such things out of some odd, self appointed tradition. The more he thought about it, he realized that Snotlout hardly ever caught anyone by surprise with his antics. Was that intentional?

"Morning Snotlout," he said affably, acting as though nothing were amiss in the boy's behavior. Which, he supposed, there really wasn't.

The larger Viking straightened his horned helmet and plunked himself down on the shore next to him. "Hey Jaspin." He gave the younger boy's shoulder a half-hearted shove, forcing him to lean slightly to one side. "How's Berk's newest warrior-in-training?"

Jaspin thought this might be what Snotlout would be coming to talk about. He pretended indifference. "Mmm?"

"Yeah, didn't you hear?" He picked up a rock, hefted it once and threw it as hard as he could from a sitting position. The rock arced well away from the dragons that were still stomping around in the surf and landed with a distant clatter further down the beach. "Stoick's called for early training. Everyone over fourteen gets a sword in their hand." He gave him another hearty nudge. "You'll be training with me." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Don't worry, I'll go easy on ya. Don't want to break too many bones your first time out."

"Mmm." Jaspin nodded absently. "Sounds like fun."

"Oh, it is!" Snotlout stood suddenly and moved to stand directly in front of him. He noticed the older boy had a stick in his hand. Of course he was holding it as though it were a sword. He took up a fighting stance and waved the end of his stick menacingly at Jaspin's reclining figure. To carry off the effect he wore a fierce grin. "You'll start with wooden swords. Mostly just bruises and busted knuckles. Then they'll give you a blunt blade. That's when you start bleeding real good." He affected an attack at Jaspin, who barely blinked at the stick swishing around a few inches from his chest. "They may take the edge off, but it will still make a mess of you if you don't keep your shield up properly." The end of the stick poked him a few times in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt but too hard to ignore. He did a fancy slashing spin that glanced off one of his knees. That _did_ hurt, but Jaspin did his best to ignore it.

Snotlout finally planted the tip of his 'weapon' in the ground and grinned smugly at him. "Eventually, if you're worthy, you'll get a real sword and have to do the real thing. That's when you become a true warrior."

Jaspin didn't bother reminding him he'd already had beginner's training and been given a short sword when they'd let him keep watch during raids. Though it wasn't a real warrior's blade, like his father's, he still thought of it as a real sword. He gazed solemnly at Snotlout, knowing how best to deal with his teasing. "Like you did on Red Death Island?"

For a split second the older boy was confused, having had his implied threats dismissed and a chance to brag offered instead. But he was up to the task. His smug grin quickly returned and he waved his tree limb theatrically. "Of course! Don't forget, you're looking at the only Viking in all of Berk who actually laid hands on that cursed monster before it was killed."

"Smacked it in the eyes with a war hammer, I hear." Jaspin leaned forward and sat straight, having steered the conversation in a direction that interested him. "What was it like? Weren't you worried you might fall? Or get eaten?"

Snotlout dismissed such notions with a wave of his hand. "Are you kidding? I was hoping he would eat me. Then I could be the first Viking to kill a dragon from the _inside!_" He swung his 'sword' against the ground, mimicking the attack he'd laid against the Red Death's huge eyes. "I kept yelling at it, 'Come on you big ugly lizard, open up and let me in!' But it was too smart for that." He then launched into a blow by blow account of his battle with the huge beast. Jaspin had heard him tell the story several times already, but it still intrigued him. Behind Snotlout, however, he couldn't help noticing that Bitequick and Asgeirr were behaving a little odd. They had broken off playing in the surf and seemed to be engaged in sniffing at each other intently.

Asgeirr was a fairly big male of his species, yet they weren't sure of his age. In fact it was hard to figure age for any dragon. They'd never seen any dragons that didn't look like full grown adults. Even now that they could inspect him up close there were few clues as to how old he was or how long he might live.

As he watched the two dragons and their new behavior, he listened with half an ear to Asgeirr's rider. He was very much like his dragon, he reflected. They both tended to be willful, reckless and even dangerous when angered. Jaspin had, however, noticed something interesting about people who associated with dragons. It seemed it was harder for those folks to hide certain aspects of their personalities when they were around their reptilian companions. More so than when they were among other villagers, anyway. Snotlout was a good example of this. As long as Jaspin had known him, the older boy had always acted like a rough, careless warrior type who had no softness in him whatsoever. Ever since he had partnered with his dragon, though, Jaspin had sometimes noticed a peaceful look in his eyes, or a slight smile pulling at his mouth. He had come to believe that Snotlout cared about his dragon in a way he might never admit in words. But it was there to see if anyone looked close enough. And Jaspin did.

Snotlout concluded his heroic retelling with, "You should have seen it. It was amazing!"

Drawing his attention back to the larger boy, he asked, "How big was it, really? I keep hearing different things from different people."

"Kid, I'm telling ya, it was _huge_! It was at least..." He looked around, trying to find some way to give an accurate comparison. His gaze swept across the rocky, tree topped columns that dotted the waters. He pointed at one of the larger ones. "At least as big as that. Maybe bigger. It was kind of hard to tell from on top of its head."

"And it could actually fly, being that big?"

Snotlout nodded. "Yeah, it did. Don't ask me how."

"I guess your dragon training didn't do you much good against it, huh?"

"Not really." The older boy chuckled. "No one knew about this thing, so how could you train to fight it? We just had to do whatever we could and hope it worked."

"Nothing Hiccup had learned helped?"

"Naw. This thing was just one huge pile of angry. We were lucky we didn't lose more people than we did." A strange look crossed Snotlout's face as he remembered the aftermath of the battle.

Jaspin sighed. "I wish I could have seen it." He looked at Bitequick and Asgeirr, who had finally climbed out of the surf and were lounging together on the beach, enjoying the sun. "I'd even like to see it now, if I could."

"Pff." A dismissive wave of Snotlout's hand swept such ideas away. "It was nothing but a broken heap of charred meat when we were done with it. You could hardly even tell it had been a dragon. Besides, it's been dead for half a year. It probably reeks. I'll bet even the seagulls don't go near the place."

Jaspin said nothing for several moments. Finally, he asked the question that he'd wanted to ask from the time Snotlout had appeared. "So if the Red Death is long gone, and we don't fight dragons any more, why do we have to start training again? Who will we be fighting?"

Snotlout shrugged indifferently. "Other Vikings, probably."

After mulling that over a bit, he asked, "Why?"

An amused look crossed the older boy's face. "That's what Vikings do."

Jaspin considered telling him that they'd always been told that Vikings fought dragons. But that was obviously not the case any more. So if 'other Vikings' were going to be their opponents now, the next question seemed clear.

"What other Vikings?"

Snotlout pointed toward the vast expanse of blue before them. "Depends on who Gobber and your dad find."

Now Jaspin was fairly confused. He'd heard his father talk about the trading mission several times. This topic had never come up. "Are they going to look for someone to fight? I thought they were going to look for someone to buy stuff from."

With an air of worldliness, Snotlout said, "Yeah, well you never know who you might run into out there. Maybe they'll want to trade, maybe they'll want to fight."

"Oh."

The conversation had run its course for Snotlout. He turned and walked back toward Berk. As he moved away, Asgeirr raised his head and watched him go. The Monstrous Nightmare turned to study Bitequick. He nudged her slightly with his snout, but she was fast asleep. When she didn't respond, he got up and followed his rider toward the village.

Jaspin stood and moved close to the Nadder's motionless form. Like others of her kind, she slept like a bird, her legs folded under her and her wings tight against her sides. Her head drooped forward, rising and falling slightly in time with her breathing. He sat down next to her and returned to watching the sky.

* * *

"YEEEAAAAAHHAAAAA!"

The sound simply exploded from Jaspin's throat as Bitequick suddenly rolled upside down and plummeted toward the ocean. He heard her happy squawking over the roar of the wind beating at his ears. They dropped incredibly fast, his body tucked as close to the saddle as possible and her wings pulled in tight to her sides. His eyes watered and his cheeks ached as a manic grin split his face.

Simply falling wasn't quite good enough, of course. Bitequick twisted her wings so that they started spinning as they fell. The arc of green and brown that was Berk rotated in and out of his vision like a crazed bee circling his face. As the rumpled blue plate of the ocean widened in his eyes, they stopped spinning and started arcing into straight flight. She leveled out over the water, gliding at top speed, and then pulled up again without flapping. Their motion carried them a few hundred feet into the air until they stopped. When they did, she snapped her wings and flipped her tail to do a nose-over-tail roll. Jaspin hollered again, ecstatic.

Hiccup and Toothless were certainly the best flying team in Berk, since they'd been doing it the longest. But Jaspin believed he and Bitequick spent more time doing aerobatics for the sheer thrill of it than anyone.

They caught an updraft and used it to climb quickly near one of the islets just off the main shore. As they neared the top, the Nadder flew directly for the rocky stack's top, just missing the edge of it as they flew over. She kicked her legs down and scratched at the stone column as they went by. As the small, scrubby plateau flashed by beneath them, Bitequick cut a tight arc that brought them back down toward the other edge. She deliberately clipped the other edge with the tip of her tail as they curved over it and back down toward the water again.

They were far enough from the ocean's surface and slow enough that she could wait a few precious seconds before she leveled out again. She used those seconds to build her speed up once more. Although nowhere near as fast as she had been going the last time, she still leveled out as close to the water as she could, dragging the tips of her claws through the surf to kick up a spray. When they ran out of momentum, she started pumping her wings for height once more.

This was one of the greatest joys in Jaspin's life; the exhilarating motion through the skies, the feeling of unparalleled freedom that his dragon gave him. He often felt he got the better end of the deal from their friendship. While he could care for his dragon, feed her and help groom her and offer his companionship, what she gave him was of significantly more value to his mind. And as his father had pointed out, she was capable of managing her own feeding and grooming. That meant the only thing he really gave her that was of himself was friendship. He very much liked to think she felt it a worthy trade. So far she'd given him no reason to think she felt otherwise.

Bitequick was, in fact, a closer and truer friend than any of the other young people in the village. He knew his occasional single-mindedness bothered people, especially adults. He knew they would often contrive means of sending him away, tasks to do or messages to carry. Even Hiccup, who had been the greatest bane in the whole tribe until The Battle, did it sometimes. That had bothered him a little at first, but he later suspected that Stoick's son was trying to seem more grown up and responsible and that was why he would sometimes push Jaspin away.

His intense longing and outspoken desire to be a warrior and to fight dragons had been humorously tolerated when he was younger, far too small to carry a weapon let alone wield it. Once he had started to grow, his constant interest in swords and battle training had still been tolerated, but with much less humor. His constant questions and pleading to start training had only made him a nuisance.

Now that dragons were a part of Berk and of life in the village, it didn't matter what anyone thought of him. He still liked swords and the idea of being a warrior, but without their age-old enemies to face them, his interest in fighting had been largely replaced by his love of flying.

As Bitequick worked her way back among the clouds, Jaspin felt like he was exactly where he belonged. He scooted back in the saddle and laid his upper body along the shoulders and neck of the Nadder, his head just brushing the large spiked ridge that crowned her. He reached down with his arms and gently rubbed her rounded cheeks, getting a throaty trill of pleasure from her. Yes, he thought, this is my place. Here with her, above the world.

The wind became music, a lullaby set to the rhythm of her heartbeat. Her occasional squeak or chirrup would float back to him, making him smile. He drew a deep, contented breath and closed his eyes. He didn't truly doze, but his mind seemed to float off on its own, leaving his body to keep the Nadder company. If there'd ever been a happier moment in his life, he couldn't remember it.

He roused sometime later. Much later than he realized, when he saw Berk was a distant smudge on the horizon and the sun was past the high mark of noon. Bitequick had let the winds carry them where they would and let him sleep, easily cradled between the pinions of her wings. He chuckled and patted her to let her know he was awake. He was also hungry. He sat up and took hold of the saddle grips. "I'm starving. How about we head home?"

His reptilian counterpart gently banked back toward their island and started flapping to make headway. As they swung around Jaspin noticed a speck off in the distance, further west. He first mistook it for a bird. But he quickly realized the shape was all wrong. It was far enough away that he couldn't quite figure out which species of dragon it might be. Something about it struck him odd, though.

As Bitequick finished her turn, the other dragon wound up behind them, flying away. Jaspin twisted in the saddle to take one last look. The sweep of its wings was slow, ponderous. And as far away as it must have been it had to be pretty big for him to see it in an empty sky. The dragon manual said that Scauldrons and Timberjacks were some of the larger species, aside from the Monstrous Nightmares. But the body looked too large and lumpy for any of those.

Whatever it was, it was flying away from Berk. With a shrug, Jaspin turned his thoughts toward home and his next meal.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**A/N**

I got lazy with my research on Viking fishing, so I have no idea if I've portrayed it correctly here. **  
**

I'm not entirely certain I did Snotlout justice. I think I may have softened him up too much. I tend to lean toward that 'everybody's good inside' view of characters that aren't specifically meant to be villains. I've seen other writers portray him much better than I have, with a realistic balance of disdain and empathy.

Jaspin's father, Hogknee Vapnfjord is based off of a Viking you can see in the movie. He's caught my eye many times because of his dental distinction. Anyone know the scene? It's very brief. One Toothless Treat to anyone who can name it.

There are some names given to dragons by their riders that I haven't explained in the body of the stories, so I'll add them here. There will be others later on.

FOLKVARDR - Astrid's Deadly Nadder: Variant spelling of Old Norse Folkvarðr, meaning "guardian of the people."

ASGEIRR - Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare: Old Norse name composed of the elements áss "god" and geirr "spear," hence "god-spear." Equivalent to Old High German Ansgar.


	13. First Hunter

.

Broken

Chapter 13: First Hunter

The late morning sun felt good on Crush Claw's back and the woodcave under his belly, while steeply sloped, was wide enough to comfortably support his long, sinuous body. He had learned to nestle his head among the odd projections atop one end of the woodcave, hook his wing claws into the edge of it, drape his hinds straddling the peak and let his tail dangle over the opposite end. In this way he could sleep undisturbed while remaining in the preytooth's nesting grounds.

He wouldn't have been sleeping on top of a woodcave at all if it weren't for the odd and sometimes unsettling nature of the preytooths themselves. Since his first day among them he'd been trying to learn their ways. Sometimes he felt he might eventually understand them. At other times he was certain every single one of them was brain sick. Especially the one with which he'd bonded. He had come to call him 'Braintwist', partly because of his occasional erratic behavior but also because he hated the name other Kin had given him.

Earlier that morning, in fact, Braintwist had started a new game with him. He'd quickly come to think of it as 'eat and touch.' The preytooth had brought an object made of plant fibers yet was filled with newly caught fish. He'd set it down outside the woodcave and fed one of the fish to him. After he ate it, thrumming contentedly, Braintwist had laid his foreclaw gently on his snout. He was used to this, having accepted such contact when they'd bonded over the boar. The preytooth had rubbed his muzzle in a strange but soothing way. Then he'd given him another fish. As he ate it, Braintwist had laid his foreclaws upon his neck. Again he rubbed gently, getting him used to the contact.

So the game went. Crush Claw thought it was an odd game, but certainly not a bad one. Not until Braintwist went one step too far.

That was the most troubling thing about preytooths. He couldn't be certain of their intentions when he knew so little about them. He knew the history of preytooths as told him by those Kin at Fire Nest who'd fought against them. Fighting preytooths was well understood. But this new way of living with preytooths instead of fighting them was unlike any story ever told to a fledgling about the wide, wild skies beyond the nest. The new stories, like the fledglings they were told to, had no distance behind them, no history to look back on for lessons of how to go forward.

That was why Crush Claw had been utterly unprepared when Braintwist had given him a fish and then laid a foreclaw on his wing.

To touch a dragon's wings, that very part of his body that gives him flight, is almost as invasive as trying to directly touch his liver. Certainly Crush Claw's dam had preened his wings for him as a fledgling, but that was before he'd made his first flight. When Braintwist had put his small, warm foreclaw on the leading edge of his wing he had reared up and roared his displeasure. As he did, something odd happened to him.

Hatchlings in a nest know nothing. It's expected that they will step on or experimentally bite one another's wings or the wings of their dam or sire. One of the first lessons taught those who've just poked their snouts out of their eggs is the importance of respecting the bodies of both Kin and others. Crush Claw remembered his own lesson, firmly applied by his sire. As he voiced his unhappiness at having his wing touched, he remembered that lesson clearly. Only now he was seeing it from his sire's point of view. The relatively small preytooth standing before him had taken a step back, his scent broadcasting a faint but unmistakable mix of fear and confusion. And that stopped him from striking the preytooth in retaliation. Braintwist was of an adult size, as far as he could tell, yet ignorant of the ways of Kin. Lessons were needed to insure the safety and trust on both sides.

Crush Claw, unsure of what to do next and still unhappy about the inappropriate contact, had simply leapt onto the woodcave and out of Braintwist's reach. The preytooth had watched him for a time before trying to tempt him down with more fish. Crush Claw had had his fill and wanted no more of either. He arranged himself on top of the woodcave, closed his eyes and ignored the other. After a time he heard Braintwist wander off.

Although his eyes were closed, the dragon did not sleep. Instead he fretted about the preytooth to whom he'd bonded.

He'd never expected to have the problems he now faced. He'd chosen a preytooth for bonding and been accepted, but only after displaying for many others. All those others had ignored him or discouraged him. He'd started to think Swimmer had been right, that he might never find one with which to bond. Eventually he'd been forced to seek out the one preytooth he'd been warned not to approach. While Braintwist certainly did not seem the best choice, Crush Claw didn't feel he was as dangerous as the others said.

And yet he had doubts. There was something about the preytooth to which he'd bonded, something subtle and dark that he couldn't hook a tooth into. He didn't think it was Braintwist's scent. He'd learned the truth of Swimmer's statement that one could read the stronger scents and understand what a preytooth was feeling. Unfortunately that didn't help as much as one might hope because one couldn't always understand _why_ the preytooth might be feeling any particular way. There'd been times Crush Claw had expected his preytooth to feel contented, only to pick up anger or confusion from him. Other times he might feel certain Braintwist would react to something violently only to watch him dismiss it or ignore it entirely. Underneath it all, however, there was something about his preytooth's behavior that marked him as somehow different from the others.

The lack of understanding between Kin and preytooths could have caused many problems if most Kin weren't determined to protect their truce with them. In fact, the only advice any Kin had given him that had been of value was given to him by one of the bonded brightscales. "Treat every preytooth as a hatchling. Expect them to know nothing of Kin." The truth of that had been proven just that morning.

Crush Claw wished he could get more advice from any Kin willing to talk to him. Nearly everyone he'd approached to ask questions about preytooths had instead tried to convince him to abandon the one to which he'd bonded, as though it was interfering with their hunt in some way. It bothered him almost as much as being called 'small.'

There was one thing bonded Kin _did_ agree on concerning preytooths: the experience was often a rewarding one because of something the preytooths did that Kin usually didn't. They often touched their bond partner. Outside the egg nest, dragons seldom had reason to come into physical contact unless they were fighting or mating. Preytooths were very different. They seemed to enjoy touching things around them as often as they could. This included both Kin and other preytooths. Crush Claw had personally learned the truth of that sentiment. Braintwist liked to make contact with him frequently. It wasn't just touching either. Grooming was another activity preytooths engaged in with Kin. So was scratching.

That was utterly new to Crush Claw. When Braintwist had started to rub those blunt claws over the sensitive spot between his jaw hinge and his ear canal, it was all he could do to remain standing. When the preytooth had stopped and stepped back, he'd crooned longingly and moved closer, surprisingly desperate to experience the sensation once again.

Not all touching interested him, however. Beyond the unwanted wing contact, he wasn't at all convinced he would ever want Braintwist riding on his back. Something about the idea struck him as pungently wrong. Since arriving at the preytooth's nest he'd seen several Kin flying with their bond partner, stumpy hinds straddling a graceful neck or a powerful set of shoulders, foreclaws grasping wherever they could to stay on. He'd gotten used to the sight, but it still didn't smell right to him.

It suddenly occurred to him, at that moment, that perhaps it was the strength of the bond that made the difference. All the Kin he'd seen carrying preytooths on their back had chosen their partner and been accepted. Both Kin and preytooth wanted the arrangement. Both wanted, he assumed, to share the experience of flight in a way neither had before.

If he had bonded with a preytooth the others accepted and who didn't give him reason to doubt his own choice, would he feel differently about carrying his bond partner up into the sky?

A shadow crossed over his eyes and he heard the faint flutter of wings approaching. A friendly chirrup preceded, "Soft tailwinds!" There were the underlying tones in her voice that asked permission to land within his nesting space. He raised his head to answer with, "Swift hunting!" and the complacent rumblings that said she was welcome to touch land.

Swimmer landed beside the woodcave, her sturdy legs flexing slightly as she met the ground. He noticed she only partly furled her wings, however. She was not there simply to visit. "Has the sun warmed your blood well today, Blind White?"

Expecting her use of his egg name, he answered calmly, "I am Crush Claw. I am big enough." Brightscales were well known for their playful word twisting, but Swimmer took special pleasure in reminding him of their first meeting by using only his egg name when they met. "Yes, the sun is good today. I'd offer you a roost, but this woodcave is barely large enough to hold me."

"Thank you, but I need no roost just now. I've been fishing and thinking and I'm full of both."

"A good way to drown, diving with your head full of thoughts."

She extended her wings and flapped once, hopping with the stroke. "I am Swimmer. I can dive deep enough to reach the clawnose and the slashback. A head full of thoughts cannot keep me under." She settled, but still didn't completely furl her wings. Her head was full of thoughts, indeed.

"What can I do for my Kin?" he asked, feeling that some formality was called for.

Swimmer preened a moment, a sign she was not entirely comfortable with what was in her mind. She was downwind so he had no clearer signal of how concerned she might be. "Will you come with me to speak to the First Hunter?" There were notes of apology in her voice, a tremble of regret in her tone. "I must question your hunt."

Much like Braintwist's grasping touch on his wing, her words sparked a brief flare of heat in his liver. His wing claws, small as they were, dug furrows in the edge of the woodcave. Crush Claw doused the flame quickly, however. Swimmer was known to him and meant him no harm. To ask him to speak to the First Hunter meant she had heavy concerns for his well being. She was his elder, of breeding age, and her words were worth considering. Still, it did not please him.

He felt certain he knew what thoughts were filling her head. Her first warning had not been her last. Every Kin he approached echoed her words to him. None spoke fighting words to him, but the warnings were unending. The First Hunter must surely be ready to add his voice to Kin and others in the matter.

He saw only two directions. Either he was blind to the dangers his bond partner presented or others were being too protective. Sometimes sires or dams kept their fledglings in the nest overlong and thus did them injury. His own eyes had damaged him while in his egg nest. But he saw clearly now and trusted his eyes as any Kin should. Where was the truth of it?

Perhaps it was with the First Hunter. He supposed it would not hurt him to hear that one's words as well. He had a question of his own, though.

"Who is First Hunter of this nest?"

Swimmer bobbed her head, encouraged. "The ghostwing. His name is-"

"I know his name," Crush Claw interrupted. As though any Kin out of the shell hadn't heard that one's name. "Where is he now?"

* * *

They found him near the stony beach where the preytooths made their woodfish. He had spread himself out upon the grassy verge, his wings an impressive span for the size of his body. As they circled down to land, he could see drops of water sparkling on the dark skin. The First Hunter had been bathing and was now napping as he dried.

Swimmer asked for permission for both of them to approach and the ghostwing bade them land. Crush Claw felt a moment's irritation at having another sponsor him, but reminded himself he was the fledgling of the group. He was here to listen to the First Hunter's words.

The black scaled Kin stood and snapped his wings, filling the air with tiny droplets of water. He thumped his long tail to the ground and shook his head, stretched his legs in opposing pairs then sat and gazed at them warily. Something seemed wrong with him, something Crush Claw couldn't quite understand. Before he could ask, Swimmer approached the ghostwing and trilled a formal note.

"My flight name is Swimmer. My companion's flight name is Crush Claw. We give thanks to the First Hunter and remember his deed at Fire Nest." She stepped closer until she was nearly snout to snout with the ghostwing and worked her gullet. The front half of a large silver side, the tastiest morsel one could find in the surrounding waters, lay in the grass between them. Suddenly he worried he was supposed to make a similar offer. Then he realized she had said 'we give thanks', meaning the offering was given to show their respect. She was sponsoring him again, but he had no quarrel with her intentions.

The First Hunter stared at the offering a moment. Then he softly growled his acceptance and swallowed the silver side. "I thank you for sharing your catch." He then looked at Crush Claw, studying him briefly before turning back at Swimmer. "What may I do for you?"

The brightscale settled herself on the ground. "I met Crush Claw on his way here from Fire Nest. I taught him the winds here. I warned him that bonding with a preytooth would be difficult. I told him to avoid Iceblood." She stopped a moment to preen, trying to focus her thoughts. "Now he has bonded to that one." She turned her nearest eye to Crush Claw. "I am worried for him."

The ghostwing looked at Crush Claw again, peering closely at him. He suddenly felt the words he dreaded were coming once more. He was mistaken.

"What do you think of this nest?"

He flicked his wings a few times, unaccustomed to being asked his opinion. "It is strange. Hard to understand. The preytooths do many things that don't make sense."

His words were answered with a short grumble of agreement. "Do you scent any danger here?"

That took a moment's thought to answer. When he'd arrived he had intended to return to Fire Nest if anything struck him as a threat. But the sheer strangeness that often marked his days in this new place was hard to call a threat. How could one see danger if one didn't know all its forms? He gave the clearest answer he could manage.

"If there is danger here, other than the preytooths themselves, I don't know its sign or scent."

The First Hunter sounded agreement again. "Is that not a danger in itself? Not knowing the sign or scent of what may harm you?"

Crush Claw could see the truth of that. The fledgling that approaches the ledge of his nest before his wings are strong enough does not understand the difference between flying and falling. But the time he'd spent with his bond partner didn't feel like falling. Well, most of the time it didn't.

"Swimmer told me Braintwist's liver was full of snow and his eyes were full of blood. I do not scent these things."

The ghostwing gurgled confusion. "Braintwist?" Swimmer chittered an odd note.

"That is what I have named him."

Now the dark Kin made sounds of amusement. "I think that is a name that would describe all preytooths." He studied Crush Claw's form once more. "Has your bond partner ever done anything that injured you?"

"No."

"Has he ever threatened you with sharp metal?"

"No." It felt good to be able to answer those questions.

"Has he tried to ride you?"

Crush Claw hesitated to answer, surprised by the realization. "No, he has not."

A long, low rumble of discontent rose from deep in the First Hunter's chest. "He is a clever one, your Braintwist. You have named him better than you know."

He did not like what he was hearing. "What do you mean?"

The ghostwing folded his wings tightly and curled his tail around himself. "I know these preytooths better than any Kin flying. I was watcher for Fire Nest after the Great Eel came. I spent many nights roosting on their woodcaves, learning their language, listening to their plans. I learned their names and their roles within their nest. I protected the gatherings as best I could."

A sickening coldness crept into Crush Claw's liver. He reared back, unable to prevent the hiss that escaped his jaws.

"Crush Claw!" Swimmer scolded him. He ignored her.

"Preytooths have no language! They have no names! They are clever beasts only! How can you say these things?" The ideas that the ghostwing was putting forth made him want to take flight for Fire Nest right then.

With a tone that hinted at humor, the First Hunter said, "No. They are not beasts. They are a kin."

That was the second time others had made that claim about preytooths and his reaction was swift and desperate. "Preytooths are not Kin!"

"I didn't say they are Kin. I said they are 'a kin.' There is a difference."

Was this nothing but word twisting to them? Were the two of them trying to confuse him?

"Do you truly doubt me?" The tip of the ghostwing's tail flicked upward, into Crush Claw's line of sight. "Do you not know my story?"

Another shock hit his liver. "Your tail!" He felt his wings quiver at the sight of the infirmity that confronted him. He looked into the ghostwing's eyes, seeking signs of brain sickness and finding none. How could this be? "You can't fly!"

Swimmer screeched a harsh note and stood with wings spread. "Fledgling! Listen to your elders!" Her words changed nothing.

"How can you be First Hunter? How can you know anything about preytooths?" He looked at the missing tail fin again and felt his whole body trembling at the wrongness of it all. "Your flight name is Wind Rip! You grounded the Great Eel! How..." He heard a loud rush as his skin fire suddenly enveloped his body. He smelled only his own fire, saw only his own flames before his eyes. Finally, in anguish and fear he roared, "WHAT ARE YOU?"

The others had moved back when he fired his skin, giving him room to take flight if he so chose. He wanted to. He wanted to jump up and put this strange nest behind him, return to Fire Nest and never again think about the strangeness of preytooths or of ghostwings who claimed their old enemies had language. He wanted to badly. He crouched.

"Open your eyes, Blind White."

Crush Claw froze. His joints locked, almost against his will. The voice had been soft, gentle. He'd almost missed it over the steaming roar of his skin fire. He trembled like a hatchling just out of the shell.

"Open your eyes and see the truth."

He wanted to shriek, wanted to deny, wanted to flee. He could do nothing. His skin fire started to ebb. Why had he ever left Fire Nest?

"The sky is far wider than your eyes. So is the truth."

No, he thought, the wideness of the sky could not hide truth. Truth was what the eye saw, what the ear heard, what the liver felt. It could not be larger than him.

Could it?

"Open your eyes and I will show you the truth. I will give you answers."

His fluttering skin fire went out as abruptly as if he'd dove into the water. Answers! Knowledge, truth; the coldest, heaviest air to climb up and up and see the full width of the sky. He panted, shaking and miserable. He turned his eyes to the First Hunter. Only then did he realize it had been him speaking.

"Tell me," he begged, like a hatchling needing food, shameless. Slowly his joints loosened and he sank to the ground, groaning.

"Crush Claw," came Swimmer's harsh voice.

"No," the ghostwing intervened. "He hears me now. Don't you, Blind White?" The black dragon slowly approached him. This was the one he'd been told about, whose flight name echoed throughout Fire Nest. He was the one named Wind Rip, who had grounded the Great Eel and changed the skies forever. The Kin here had proclaimed him First Hunter of the preytooth nest. His voice spoke for Kin, his words were those of the watcher.

He came to him until their noses touched. The great dark wings lifted and spread over his head, blocking the light until only the glowing eyes before him could be seen. Large black pupils were surrounded by a faint light like the ribbons of sky fire that sometimes filled the night air. He was held by those eyes, kept warm and safe, protected from any harm. They seemed to grow larger until they were all he could see. "Do you hear me, my Kin? Can my words reach you?"

It was like being preened by his dam. The sense of calm worked its way through his whole body, pushing out the fear and confusion that had claimed him. "I hear my Kin," he answered quietly, relieved.

The wings retreated and the ghostwing sat back. There was serenity in his eyes, a sense of confidence and understanding that held his gaze. "Ask your questions."

Strangely enough, the first question that came to his mind was rather unimportant but still puzzling. "How did you know my egg name?"

A gentle chuffing of amusement preceded, "I asked your friend Swimmer. You did not hear me."

Crush Claw felt oddly weak and muddled, but safe. He considered his first answer until his next question appeared. "How can you be First Hunter if you can't fly? You can't hunt if you can't fly."

The ghostwing's head tilted slightly, considering. "I am First Hunter _because_ I can't fly." He flicked his tail again, moving the damaged fin between them. "And I am First Hunter because I _can_ fly."

He felt his grasp of the truth slipping. "I don't understand."

Easing himself to the ground beside Swimmer, he made himself comfortable. "Will you listen to my story, and come to know the truth as I did?"

Feeling calmer, he put aside his confusion. The frightening impossibility that faced him would be explained. First Hunter would give him the truth to hold in his mouth and carry with him wherever he flew. He quietly grunted his willingness to listen.

The ghostwing started the tale as he would with any fledgling that'd been told some of the stories of his Nest. He lowered his head and closed his eyes and began to speak in the teaching tone.

"This you know: the Nest serves all Kin and all Kin serve the Nest. The health of the Nest flies with all Kin in all skies."

"This I know," he answered, remembering lessons learned from his parents.

"The Nest has watchers. They seek the hunting grounds; follow the pods of water prey and the spoor of land prey. They warn against enemies and rivals."

"This I know."

"Ghostwings are the watchers. They are the swiftest fliers, the strongest fighters. Their skin is the moonless night. Their fire is of the sun and land and water."

"This I know."

The First Hunter opened his eyes and began his tale.

"Before my egg was laid, Fire Nest was healthy. Many ghostwing pairs lived there, protecting their Nest. Kin hunted and flew and called the skies their home. For long and longer it remained." He turned his wide head, gazing in the direction of Fire Nest. "Then the Great Eel came. Most Kin knew nothing its kind. A few did." He lowered his eyes, and sounded a note of sorrow. "My sire did."

"I hear and remember," Crush Claw responded.

"He warned the ghostwings. He tried to warn all those of breeding age. The ghostwings listened and left. Most of the rest did not. My dam was heavy with eggs and ready to drop her clutch. She could not leave."

"I hear and remember."

"The Great Eel took Fire Nest. Kin became thrall. My sire took those not of breeding age and attacked. They failed and died. Some were killed by the Great Eel, the rest were taken by Kin."

For a moment, Crush Claw couldn't speak. Kin killing Kin was certainly not unheard of, but it usually involved competing for a mate or taking territory. This was horribly different.

"I... hear and remember."

"During the fighting, my egg nest was trampled. Of the three eggs my dam laid, only mine remained. When I left my egg and joined the Nest, my dam named me One Heart. She had remained, in thrall, to raise and protect me."

"I hear and remember."

"In time, I took the skies for my own. I quickly found my flight name. No Kin before could dive so fast that the air screamed in pain. I became Wind Rip. I became watcher for Fire Nest. I protected the gatherings while Kin in thrall attacked the preytooths. I mourned my Kin's mindless servitude but could do nothing more by myself. So it remained for many seasons until I made the worst mistake Kin can make with preytooths." He once more held up the damaged end of his tail. "I believed I knew everything I needed to know about them and what they could do."

The ghostwing's story became strange beyond belief. He spoke of being grounded, threatened with sharp metal. He explained the nature of his captivity and the curiosity of his bond partner. He told of the first moment of contact, given with trust and accepted with hope. When he related the efforts of his bond partner to give back what he had taken, Crush Claw's liver warmed. And the tale of their trial, starting with the ghostwing's arrival at the preytooth's nest and ending at Fire Nest, finally gave him the widest view of what was possible between Kin and preytooths. It left him thrumming softly to himself and wishing Braintwist were more like... like...

"You said preytooths have names."

"Yes."

"What is your bond partner's name?"

The ghostwing shifted his lean body, trying to get more comfortable. "I don't think of him as my bond partner. I think of him as my flight mate. And I've been calling him Featherstone. When he's on my back he's no more than a bird's feather. But he can be as blind and deaf as a stone sometimes."

Crush Claw bobbed his head a bit. "No, I meant his own name. What flight name did he take?"

The dark skinned Kin seemed reluctant but answered anyway. "He is called Lung Spasm."

Swimmer squawked her confusion. Crush Claw had to think about it a moment.

"What does that tell other preytooths about him? Why would he take such a flight name?"

"I don't know the why of it, only the word," the ghostwing confessed. "I am still learning about them even now. He and I are making a new language for ourselves."

"A new language," he echoed in wonder.

"Do you now understand why Wind Rip is First Hunter," asked Swimmer.

"Yes," Crush Claw answered. "I scent it clearly now."

The ghostwing turned to Swimmer. "I am no longer Wind Rip."

Turning her head several times to view him through one eye then the other, she chirred her apology. "Have I spoken it wrong?"

"No. I stopped being One Heart when I left my egg nest and took Wind Rip as my flight name." His wings twitched and his tail curled around his legs. "After the Great Eel was grounded and our Kin were no longer enthralled, I knew my flight name no longer spoke of who I was. I changed it."

Crush Claw quietly asked, "What is the First Hunter's flight name?"

"Two Hearts."

He was not prepared for how deeply this knowledge would affect him. The Kin before him, the nest's First Hunter, had come to value his flight mate so highly that he changed his flight name to tell all Kin. If only, he thought, if only Braintwist were like Featherstone. If only they could create their own language between them. Perhaps then Crush Claw would see leaving Fire Nest as a wise decision. Perhaps so would others.

"Is this why you would have me abandon Braintwist? Because he is unlike your flight mate?"

"Because he is more like the Great Eel." Swimmer fairly bounced in her agitation. "He is a deceiver. You are young, inexperienced, you've not yet bred. You are in thrall to him and do not know it."

"That one is nothing like my Featherstone," Two Hearts agreed. "There _is_ snow in his liver. I have scented it myself." He paused a moment, considering. "Crush Claw, the bond between Kin and preytooth must be respectful in both directions. You must choose the one right for you. But you must also choose one that keeps a Kin's dignity foremost in mind when dealing with you. Many preytooths see us as big bleaters, to be used as they see fit. You must not bond with such. Iceblood has too much anger in him to see you as anything but a bleater, to be ridden then ignored."

Ridden. For the first time he could see the appeal of it. The First Hunter's story had shown him how the bond could work, making both Kin and preytooth better for it. The idea of it filled his liver with warmth and gave him something to fly toward. It sounded... wonderful.

But the warnings could not be ignored. He still couldn't understand where the heat of their mistrust lay. If Braintwist had hurt him or threatened him, well, he would have already left. And yet he did still have his own doubts, those moments when his bond partner seemed so strange and unpredictable. Was there truly danger is that aspect, as Two Hearts suggested? Would Braintwist turn on him, try to hurt him? Or worse?

Then he realized that the answer was in the First Hunter's story all along. He and Featherstone had started at odds, uncertain and doubtful. They'd worked together for their mutual benefit. They slew their fears, opened their wings to strange new winds. And look at them now. Theirs was a companionship to be desired. He saw that clearly. And he knew what he had to do.

Coloring his words with the learning tone, he said, "I have heard your words and will consider them fully. I will try to do what is best for the nest. And for myself."

"That is all I can ask," Two Hearts responded.

Taking his leave, he crouched to lift himself. Before he could, another question came to him, the very one that had brought him to the preytooth's nest in the first place.

"Should preytooths be called something different now? Since they have changed so much?"

The ghostwing blinked surprise, looked at the brightscale. Swimmer said nothing. Turning back to him, he said, "I hadn't considered that. It may be we should give them a new name." His tail twitched a bit. "I will have to think on it."

* * *

Crush Claw was once again filled with determination. It had moved him from Fire Nest to this place, and it would move him to reach across the strange, confusing distance between him and his bond partner. He wanted what Two Hearts had with his flight mate. To share such a strong and meaningful connection with one who was not Kin, but was a kin, sparked a new kind of heat in his liver. He wanted it more than anything he'd ever known, except perhaps to be a mate to another firescale. Being sire to a nest full of fledglings might just overshadow such a partnership.

That was many and more seasons away, and he had rough air to fly if he would get what he wanted. He had landed back at Braintwist's woodcave to find it unoccupied. He perched once again on top of it to wait for that one's return.

He had much to think about. How would he go about changing Braintwist? How could he make that one see that behaving so oddly would only damage their partnership? He couldn't even explain to him why it was bad to touch a Kin's wings. Two Hearts had said he and Featherstone were making a new language of their own. He wondered if he could use it with his own partner.

The sun was dropping to its resting place when Braintwist finally returned. By then, he'd found his solution. He would follow the brightscale's advice: 'Treat every preytooth as a hatchling. Expect them to know nothing of Kin.' He would treat his preytooth as he would a hatchling and teach him the lessons he needed to know to live within the nest with Kin.

It would not be easy, he knew. Braintwist could be just as blind and deaf as Two Heart's flight mate. But he was determined. He would have what the First Hunter had; a partnership that made both stronger. They would fly the skies together and roar their names to the clouds.

When the preytooth came flailing/falling toward his woodcave, Crush Claw leapt down from his roost. Braintwist stopped, wary. He slowly moved toward the smaller creature, doing his best to appear non-threatening. Lowering his head, he crooned and thrummed to his bond partner. That one made noises before approaching. Could that really be a language? If it was, would he ever be able to understand it? Could his preytooth ever learn to speak the language of Kin?

A foreclaw touched his snout and he huffed a gentle breath at the contact. Blunt claws scratched the point of his chin and rubbed the sensitive skin around his nostrils and forehorn. His thrumming deepened with pleasure.

The scratching stopped when he leaned slightly to one side and extended his wing toward Braintwist. The preytooth looked at the wing and back at him. He scented mild confusion, which he supposed was understandable. When his bond partner extended his foreclaw he drew the wing back out of reach and gently thrust his head against those soft, warm foreclaws. More confusion exuded from the squishy pink body. He extended the wing once more, only to draw it back again when Braintwist reached for it. He pushed his head against his bond partner, hoping he would get the message.

To his surprise and delight, it worked. Eventually Braintwist stopped trying to reach for his wing when he extended it toward him. His head and neck and shoulders were understood to be appropriate areas for scratching, but not his wings. Crush Claw's liver was bursting with heat.

He knew that there were odd objects that the preytooths used to help them sit on a Kin's back. They were usually made of dead skins and such. He began thinking he might allow Braintwist to put one on him, if he should try.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**A/N**

I struggled quiet a bit with this chapter. I spent the first week agonizing on how 'real' to make the dangers of this world. I seriously considered changing my plans on how I would present the story. In the end, though, I decided to go ahead with my original intentions. I believe readers will understand and accept the hardships and tragedies that will befall the characters as long as they serve the story.

I'm also worried I may have over done it with the dragon's POV. Even reading it myself, it gets a little overwhelming at times. I hope it doesn't put anyone off.

The next chapter will be delayed a bit, with the holidays approaching.


	14. Measuring Dreams

.

Broken

Chapter 14: Measuring Dreams

There was something wrong with the color of the sky, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. For that matter, Berk didn't look right either. There were too many houses that he didn't recognize and the sea was far too distant. He thought he heard sea birds calling in the distance, but their cries sounded too much like screams for his comfort.

The fact that he was dressed in a heavy robe of black wool bothered him, as he had nothing on underneath it and it was making his skin itch something awful. He reached up into one sleeve to scratch fiercely at his arm. He felt rough patches on his flesh and attacked them savagely, wanting to tear away whatever damaged skin he could reach. He saw something drift from his sleeve and flutter to the ground. When he picked it up he saw it was a thin, translucent piece of his own skin. It was circular, black and rippled, like ink on ice. He flung it away in disgust.

The sound he'd taken for sea birds grew shrill, like the panicked cries of a child. He looked around for the source and saw dragons filling the sky. They were flying in all directions, some moving as fast as any dragon could and others slowly drifting by with lazy sweeps of their wings. He watched, fascinated by the sight. The harsh sound in his ears was not coming from the dragons, however. He looked around again for the source.

A large lump covered in brown fur and green linen humped its way toward him. It moved with poor grace and stopped several times as though it were exhausted. He realized the shrieking sound had grown louder as it approached. He leaned over to look under the edge of it, trying to see its origins.

With a violence that startled him the fur and linen were thrown off to reveal a large, muscular dragon with pale white skin and eyes as black as a starless night. The pupils of those eyes were a brilliant shade of green that made him gasp. He looked again at the massive flying reptile, trying to identify it. Wings the color of new snow were spread wide, their fine bones visible through the thinner skin. The dragon's mouth opened to reveal teeth the same hue as newly shed blood and a tongue as yellow as the noon time sun. The screech that beat at his ears threatened to burst them.

He held out his hand, an echo of memory telling him he needed to touch this powerful creature. If he could touch it then perhaps he could speak to it. He might even persuade it to help him. He needed help, didn't he?

The gaping mouth hung open. He could hear a faint hissing sound beneath the endless screech of pain and anger that still hammered at him. The hissing grew in strength. He brought his hand closer, desperately wanting to touch the dragon's nose, his jaw, his wide, flat brow. He lost himself in those black and green eyes as he drew closer.

He shouted in fear as the jaws slammed shut on his arm. There was no pain, only a crushing pressure that told him he was trapped until the dragon let him go. He pushed against the reptilian snout with his other hand and tried to wrest his arm loose. It was buried up to the elbow. Where his free hand touched the frost colored scales he felt a brittle, life sucking cold. It was as if the dragon contained the essence of winter itself. He realized he'd lost the feeling in the hand trapped between the creature's jaws and panicked. He had to get loose or he would die!

He looked the dragon in the eyes, noticing that the green pupils had disappeared. The orbs were a solid, abyssal black that reflected nothing of the world they saw. He realized the hissing had stopped because there was now a growl that spoke of a deep, unrelenting anger. It rose in pitch a moment and then stopped. All sound ceased except the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Suddenly he staggered backward, free from his temporary entrapment. He looked down at his arm in horror. From the elbow down it was gone, as if it had never been. He still felt nothing, no pain of any kind. But there was a creeping, freezing numbness that was working its way up his shortened arm and into his shoulder. He would freeze solid, he knew. He looked up at the dragon.

"Help me, please!"

The dragon only smiled, its lips bending in ways they were never meant to. A voice boomed out from its chest, full of power and rage.

"YOU DID THIS!"

He opened his mouth to protest as the dragon opened his. Brilliant purplish-blue flames enveloped him, setting his robe, hair and skin on fire. Now he did feel pain, and the agony was exquisite. As he raised his nonexistent hand toward the beast in supplication it lifted itself with a single sweep of its beautifully pearled wings. It rose up, leaving him behind to his fiery misery. The last thing he noticed was the strange arrangement of leather lines and metal fittings that wrapped around the dragon's hindquarters. The image of those man-made parts burned hotter in his mind than any of the flames which greedily consumed his body.

* * *

Hiccup sat by the smoldering remains of the hearth fire with his wood and iron leg lying across his thighs. He was using a small sharpened stick to dig the mud and stones out of the grooves cut in the pad that served as his left foot. The plentiful spring rains had turned much of the ground around Berk into mud. With that slick muck packed into the walking surface of his prosthetic, getting around on hard surfaces became more treacherous.

He was only partially paying attention to his chore, however. His mind kept going back to the dream he'd had that night. His thoughts bounced between renewed feelings of guilt and responsibility over what he'd done to Toothless and the image of the control lines around the dream dragon's hind legs. There was something in that image that was nagging at him. Something important.

The front door was thrust open and Stoick came in with a load of firewood in his arms. He dumped the wood by the hearth and noticed his son. "Morning," he said, seeing Hiccup holding his false leg across his lap. "Anything wrong?"

"Just cleaning it."

"Ah." Several large pieces of wood were tossed into the hearth, along with a few smaller branches to help rekindle the flames. Once the fire had been restarted, Stoick moved the cook pot into place. The remains of last night's fish stew would serve as a hearty breakfast.

Hiccup had reattached his construct leg and moved to the table next to the hearth. He still had the same small stick in his hand and was scratching at the table's surface. The intense look of concentration on his face was all too familiar to Stoick. Usually such doodling was reserved for one of the boy's journals, but in a pinch he was known to scribble on almost anything available. As he picked up a pair of bowls and moved to stir the pot he glanced down at faint lines marring the table top. It took only a moment to identify a partial picture of the black beast and the contraption it wore to fly. He set about filling the bowls.

When he placed the stew in front of the lad he asked, "What are your plans for this morning?" There was no response to either the question or the food. This was also familiar behavior. He rapped his knuckles on the table, bringing the boy's head up. He pointed to the bowl and asked his question again.

After the first few spoonfuls of stew had vanished, Hiccup said, "I have a few more fittings to finish for Rorik. Then I want to ask Fishlegs if he has anything new to put in the manual about Gronckles."

Stoick nodded. "I've got a busy morning myself. Spitelout's told me there's an argument brewing between the Ornolf's and the Lundby's. A few of the Ornolf's sheep have gone missing and they think it's that Lunby girl's Nadder that got them."

Hiccup frowned. "If a dragon took them, it might have been a feral. I don't think Herdis would let Bitterbug go after someone else's sheep."

"Neither do I, but I've got to look into it." Stoick applied himself to his stew and soon emptied the bowl. Still hungry, he looked around to see if there was any bread left. To his disappointment there was none. He made do scraping out the last of the stew, though there were quite a few blackened flakes floating around in it. He made to ask Hiccup if he wanted any of what was left and realized his son had stopped eating, his bowl still half full.

"Not hungry?"

No response. He rapped the table again and Hiccup dragged his eyes up from the drawing he'd made.

"Huh? Oh, sorry dad." He looked down at the unfinished dragon and furrowed his brow. "I was thinking about a dream I had last night."

Stoick nodded. "Dreams are a way for the gods to speak to us." He'd told his son this many times, so he wasn't surprised when Hiccup just made a small sound of agreement. "What was the dream about?"

An almost pained expression crossed Hiccup's face now. "It was strange. I saw a dragon with a flying rig like Toothless', only it wasn't Toothless."

Stoick frowned slightly.

"And the rig was different, too. It was made with extra controllers and extra lines. Almost as if..." Hiccup subsided, concentrating on his drawing once more.

Stoick remained silent. He glanced down at his speckled stew, clenched his jaw and set the bowl on the table. He went outside without another word.

The young man sitting hunched at the table continued to puzzle over his drawing. There was an idea struggling to break free and he couldn't quite manage it. He'd been pondering the problem laid out on the table for several days now but his solutions kept hitting serious snags. Nothing he came up with survived the first stage of design. Either it was impractical or overly complicated. One idea he'd had early on had seemed quite promising until he'd spotted a possible weak point that would have tangled all the control lines at once if it had given way. He certainly didn't want to risk his life or that of his friend to bring his idea to completion.

Eventually, Hiccup said, "Dad, have you ever-" It was only then that he realized Stoick had left. "Great," he muttered. He shoved his bowl aside and went to pick up his newest journal before he stepped outside.

He got no further than the bottom of the steps before he came to a sudden halt. Standing directly in front of him, no more than an arm's length away, was Ruffnut. As if his morning hadn't been uncomfortable enough. The only person in Berk who could make him squirm more than his father was Ruffnut Thorston. Not only was she a fierce fighter who could have easily outmatched Hiccup at any physical contest, she'd also expressed a bizarre interest in him personally. Granted she'd moved beyond that phase eventually, but he couldn't forget the frightening intensity with which she'd proclaimed that she would make him _hers_. For two solid weeks he'd feared meeting Ruffnut more than he'd ever feared speaking to Astrid or even confronting his father.

Now, with that strange period behind them, Hiccup seemed to have only three kinds of encounters with the female half of the Thorston twins. Much of the time she would approach him as an equal of sorts when she had need of his experience with dragons. There were also times when she would come down on him for any mistakes or shortcomings of his, as she did with anyone else. Occasionally, however, she would give him a look that seemed to promise an intended renewal of her claim on his person and follow through, regardless of his thoughts about it. As a result, he never really knew how to interact with her at any given time. He preferred simply to avoid her as much as possible unless they were among a crowd, the larger the better.

The fact that she was standing there alone set Hiccup's nerves on edge. He looked around for anyone else that might serve as a distraction and came up empty. Not good, he thought. Nor was the silent, unreadable stare she was giving him. He decided to try bluffing his way through the encounter.

"Good morning Ruff. How are you?" He smiled and gave her a slight nod.

"Hey."

He was unsure of her state now. Was she angry about something? It was so hard to guess her mood sometimes. Most times, actually.

"Um, how's Tuff? Is he around?"

"No." Now she looked unhappy. And not the usual 'Hiccup needs to be teased until he's red in the face' kind of unhappy, either. It was a little closer to a 'people are going to bleed soon' kind of unhappy. While he didn't figure he was out of the fire, Ruffnut almost never took her anger out on him without good reason. That meant unless he had unwittingly done something to put her in a bad mood, Hiccup himself wasn't quite as likely to be the focus of her ire.

"Where is he?" Perhaps her twin was the source of irritation. That would be a safe bet, most days, but Hiccup preferred to keep things calm if he could. Anger at Tuffnut sometimes spilled over into unpleasantness with others.

"Training." That single word was spoken serenely enough. "With Mord." Some stress was placed on the weapon master's name, but not enough to make the situation clear. "And Astrid."

The venom spent on that last name shed all the light Hiccup needed to understand what had put Ruffnut into his path. "I see," he said quietly. "And you got paired up with..."

"Fishlump." He was uncertain if it was dissatisfaction in training with Fishlegs that was bothering her or if it was separation from her twin that was responsible.

"I'm guessing you'd rather be paired with someone else."

"Tuff should be training with me." Spoken in a tone of absolute certainty, that statement. Hiccup couldn't help asking.

"Why? What does it matter-"

"So I can beat the rocks out of his head." Her fist curled up. Those knuckles had left bruises on Hiccup's arms more than once. That left one last question unanswered.

"Well, why tell me? Ask Mord to switch you around."

The look of annoyance she gave him served as a warning but didn't answer the question. Luckily for him she was in a mood to explain.

"Stoick's the one who ordered the training."

Now he wondered how much influence Ruffnut thought he had with his father. He felt a frown pull at his mouth and saw it mirrored on her narrow face. She leaned forward slightly, her shoulders tensing and both her hands balling into fists.

"Ah, I see, yes. Well, I'll mention it to my father the next time I see him."

Her eyes narrowed. Angry dragons seldom looked so forbidding. "Not good enough."

Now Hiccup was feeling a bit upset at such a demand. He let his frown deepen slightly. "I can't control what my dad decides."

Ruff switched to skepticism. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to see how fast her moods could change. "You can tame a Night Fury and kill a Red Death but you can't get Stoick to change his mind."

That summed it up rather well, to Hiccup's thinking. "Entirely different things."

"Pff. Whatever."

"Have you every tried to get him to change his mind?"

"Never needed to, until now."

"Well, take it from me. Night Furies and Red Deaths are a cinch in comparison."

When she said nothing more, Hiccup hoped the exchange was at an end. He gave her another slight nod and started to walk off. He'd actually gotten past her and taken a few steps, his breath held in silent hope.

"I'll trade you."

Hiccup stopped, surprised. This was new. Ruffnut Thorston, reduced to bartering for what she wanted? He turned around.

"Trade?"

She pointed to the journal he held under his arm. "Zippleback stuff for your new manual."

Now he really was surprised. And yet, why should he barter for information everyone else had given freely? It wasn't like there weren't other sources of the information he needed, either.

"I could always ask Tuff."

The smile that settled across her face now gave him shivers. "He doesn't know what I know."

She certainly had piqued his curiosity. "What do you know?"

She said nothing, just smiled that calm, knowing smile. He definitely didn't envy whoever wound up married to her.

"You know what, I'm still working on Gronckles anyway. We can talk about Zipplebacks later." He turned again and started away. Before he got two more steps, he heard her speak a single word that made him stop.

"Mating."

Hiccup turned, getting a really odd feeling. He expected her to be grinning like a cat with the biggest mouse on the island. She was, of course. He wasn't even certain he wanted to know what she knew at that point.

"I don't-"

"Think about it." She held up one hand, two fingers extended. "Two heads." She raised her other hand, extending two more fingers. "Two tails."

Something both repelled and intrigued him. There was a look in her eyes, though, that made him consider it. She wasn't teasing him, trying to make him uncomfortable for her own reasons. He got the impression she really did know something and felt it was potentially as valuable as it was disturbing. Finally he held up a hand. "Lemme go ask."

* * *

The smithy was empty by the time he got there but the forge was lit and had been stoked recently. Several heavy braces meant to strengthen Rorik's hull sat to one side, cooling. Gobber had only just left. He picked up the smaller fittings he'd been working on the day before, which only wanted some final shaping to be completed. As he stared at them, he went over what Ruffnut had told him.

He found it hard to believe her claims. They simply sounded... unnatural. It wasn't inconceivable that she'd been making it up, but she'd provided so many strange details that he found himself believing her words. He supposed if he'd ever had any reason to wonder about Zipplebacks, he might have come up with the notion on his own.

He snorted at himself. No, there was no way it would have ever crossed his mind. It was just too odd. He wasn't even sure how he was going to write it up in the new manual. It wasn't that he was ignoring mating habits. It was spring, after all, and the whole of Berk was learning things about their former tormentors they'd never known. That included reproductive habits. But Ruff's claims strained belief. Maybe if he'd seen it himself, or could talk to someone he trusted a bit more, then he'd be able to better judge the accuracy of her statements.

Perhaps Toothless would know. He doubted the Night Fury would mind discussing Zippleback genders. He hadn't run into any topics as yet that his friend seemed to consider off limits. But would he confirm Ruffnut's report that those two headed dragons played both male and female roles during the mating process, or would he expose the whole thing as a disturbing prank? Could Zipplebacks be both male and female within the same body? It was an interesting notion, to be sure. And were the heads separated by gender? Were they separate at all? So far the Thorston twins hadn't seem interested in figuring that out and Hiccup hadn't had time.

Speculations on Zippleback sexuality weren't getting his fittings finished. He picked up the nearest one, pumped the bellows a few times to get the coals good and hot and went to work.

Normally, working alone at the forge was a good way to relax and enjoy himself. Hiccup's world would shrink down to the metal, the fire and his tools. This time there were intruders. Strange dragons with stranger mating practices, inscrutable females with the uncanny ability to make him fidget with just a look and dragons in dreamscapes all filled his head to the point that it took at least twice as long as it should to finish the work.

Of the distractions that haunted him, the dragon in his dream was the most unsettling. He kept seeing the image of the flying rig's bizarre configuration. There was something in that image, something he couldn't grasp. As the last fitting went into the cooling barrel, he had a sudden revelation. It struck him so hard he lost the fitting and had to soak his arm to the shoulder to retrieve it from the water.

It was the shape of the piece itself that had set his mind into motion. It was meant only to help keep some of the ropes which secured the Rorik's sail under control. The shape of it, however, changed in his mind. He pictured it doubled over on itself, and an enclosing of the whole thing to make it a pair of short, shaped tubes. He set the piece down, dried his arm on an old rag as best he could and moved to his small workroom.

It took some time to hunt down the last set of full drawings he'd made for Toothless' flying rig. It included the most recent small changes he'd made to improve his control of the Fury's artificial tail fin. When he had them in his hands, he began studying them intently, looking for a way to make the new modifications he wanted. To his surprise and delight it looked feasible. "Why didn't I think of this before," he muttered. "I'll have to lengthen this line and shift the anchor point, but it should work." He flipped open his journal and began sketching. "I'll need to know how long to make this, and where to tie it in. Hmm, where can I put the bracing? That would be too far back and further up would interfere with his midwings." He glanced up and looked outside. Not even midday. He had plenty of time.

He sharpened his charcoal stick and picked up a knotted measuring string, then tucked his journal into its pocket and set out to find his dragon.

* * *

"It just doesn't seem believable, you know? It's like one of those crazy stories Gobber used to tell us when we were little about trolls and fairies and things like that. But, I suppose it might make a kind of sense, if it's really true."

"Yes," Toothless insisted. "Yes yes." He nodded for emphasis.

"Huh. So Zipplebacks are always both male and female, but they don't always use both, uh, halves when it's mating time."

"Yes." Toothless nodded once more, pointing to the elaborate drawings he'd made on the floor of their cove to explain how those two-headed dragons were built. Hiccup looked them over, noticing something the Fury was specifically pointing to.

"Is this..." He pointed to the rather detailed drawing. "Do... are the male and female halves always on the same side? Are all Zipplebacks the same way?"

"No."

Hiccup thought about that a moment. "Are they _usually_ on the same side?"

"No."

"It's just random?"

"Yes."

Hiccup nodded. "Wow. Learned something new today, that's for sure." He looked up at the sun. They had several hours of daylight left. The extended discussion on Zippleback genders hadn't eaten up the entire day. "Look, buddy, there's something I wanted to ask you, something kind of... well, special."

Toothless cocked his head, curious. He moved a little closer, his attention fully on his small friend.

"I, uh, have this idea for an improvement to your flying rig." He pointed to the dragon's hindquarters. "I want to add something back there so you can work the tail fin yourself."

Toothless' head rose up a bit, definitely curious about his friend's intentions.

"I think I can, um, fix it so you can, you know, fly by yourself." He watched the dragon closely, wanting to know how the dragon would take the news. He was surprised to see very little reaction at all, beyond the simple curiosity. "Wouldn't you like that?"

"Yes."

That was it. No pouncing, no licking, no jumping around or roaring. The black dragon just stared at him, pupils wide and ears up.

Hiccup didn't say anything for a moment. He was puzzled and a little bit worried. "I'm sorry Toothless, I don't want to... insult you or anything, but..." He tried to think of the best way to put it. "I guess I just thought you'd be... I dunno, a little more excited. Or something." He shrugged helplessly. "Don't you want to be able to fly by yourself?"

The Night Fury didn't answer right away, but he did eventually nod and grunt, "Yes."

"I see."

Toothless reached with one forepaw to the special metal 'pencil' Hiccup had made for him. His clever friend had also made a special pocket for it and attached it to his flying rig. Whenever he had it on, he could carry his pencil with him. He took it out now and found some flat, sandy ground. He quickly drew a few pictographs from their ever expanding vocabulary.

[want fly alone - not need fly alone]

Hiccup understood the statement, but found it hard to believe. "Don't you miss your freedom?"

[fly alone miss you more]

That straightforward statement, made with simplified pictures drawn in the dirt, made his throat tighten a little. Part of him felt a keen sense of pride and warmth at such a declaration. But another part of him insisted there was something wrong about it, about everything that happened between the two of them.

As he usually did when such conflicting feelings threatened to overwhelm him, Hiccup pushed them aside and concentrated on the task at hand. He needed measurements of Toothless' hindquarters so he could figure out how to put his idea into practice. He showed the knotted rope to his friend.

"Remember the last time? I'll need to use this on you again to make sure it all works right."

Toothless nodded and took up a wide-legged stance with his wings spread.

Hiccup smiled. "Actually, buddy, I need you to hold yourself the way you would be if you were flying. And I, uh, need to measure you, um, _back there_." He nodded at the reptile's narrow hips.

With a strangely playful look on his face, Toothless kept his wings spread wide and leaned forward until his body collapsed, his chest on the ground and all four legs pointed toward his tail as they would be during flight. He huffed a deep breath, setting the dust in front of his nose swirling.

Hiccup chuckled at his friend's antics. Measuring rope in hand, he approached the lean flank and started his work.

It was still going to be difficult. Even with the special parts he'd just envisioned, creating a second set of controls for the bright red tail fin would not be easy. The most important part of the whole new design would be the safety factor. The changes could not be allowed to interfere in the operation of Hiccup's foot pedals. The fall they'd taken during their first serious trial flight was something he never wanted to experience again. And it wasn't only his life at stake.

He was able to get only a little bit of his work done with Toothless lying on his stomach. He needed to design and mount some braces that would have to be placed near his hind legs, and for that he would need access. He moved around to his dragon's head.

Toothless' eyes were closed, as though he had decided to relax and snooze through the process of taking measurements. Hiccup took a breath to ask him to roll over for him. Something caught his eye, and he wound up holding that breath.

[miss you more] was all that was left of Toothless' last written sentence. His gusting sigh had obliterated the [fly alone] portion.

Hiccup was struck by the coincidence. And the awful irony of their relationship hit him between the eyes once more.

He'd tried to kill Toothless, and wound up saving him instead. He'd damaged Toothless, and done his best to make repairs and amends.

The dragon was his best friend. Would likely be the closest friend he would ever have, he knew. And it had all started in a moment of ignorant selfishness. Toothless was tied to him because of that single moment, and was _happy_ about it. [miss you more] More than flying alone, more than his personal freedom. More than being what he had been before that moment.

Toothless had forgiven him. Had told him, as clearly as he was able. Considered the trade a worthy one.

Hiccup still wasn't certain.

Once more he thrust those troubling thoughts aside and tried to concentrate on the task before him.

He thrust his left leg out and squatted on his right, to get close to Toothless' head. He gently laid his hand on his dragon's warm brow. Sleepy eyes regarded him curiously. "Would you mind rolling over for me? I need to see how your back legs move."

Gurgling softly, the Night Fury tucked one wing and rolled easily onto his back. Then, with both wings folded up close to his body, he held his legs in their natural 'flight' position. Or he simply let gravity pull them close to his body in plain laziness. Hiccup couldn't be certain. Regardless, the young man needed to measure the very base of his tail, his hip area, and determine the amount of flexibility in his rear legs, knees and ankles, as well as how much movement he had in his hind paws. Then it would be a matter of working out how to run the second set of control lines under Toothless' midwings to a set of controllers that the dragon could grasp with his hind paws.

Of course, that assumed those hind paws could grasp objects the same way his forepaws could.

He took a moment to examine those paws and their claws. To his relief, they were shaped the same. There was an opposable claw facing the other three, giving his friend the ability to cling and climb to a considerable degree. And if he could use those paws to cling to tree limbs and such, then his idea for a second set of controllers would work.

To make certain of his assumption, Hiccup placed his arm against the thick, tough pad of the dragon's hind paw and said, "Do me a favor, please, and see if you can grip my arm."

Toothless shifted his head slightly and looked at him with one eye. The claws of his hind paw closed around his forearm, trapping it there without being able to put any real pressure on it. The limits the dragon had on gripping with his forepaws seemed to also apply to the hinds. When Hiccup said, "Okay, buddy, that's good" he found his dark scaled friend was in a playful mood and wouldn't release his arm. "Gah, come on Toothless. I need this arm to draw!"

It took a few more moments of half-hearted struggle before the Fury relented and released his arm. As he staggered back a bit, grinning, an image of his dream came back to him and left him feeling as if he'd been doused in cold water. He remembered trying to reclaim his arm from the dragon in his dream and stumbling much the same way. It was an unsettling coincidence and it took some of the joy out of the moment.

From that point it was measuring and designing, drawing his ideas in his journal and making sure the additional rigging wouldn't interfere with the original equipment. He had Toothless twist his legs and flex his ankles, looking for the best way to match his ideas to his friend's body.

As he manipulated the dragon's limbs and laid the knotted rope over a great deal of his lean hindquarters, it occurred to Hiccup that Toothless was the only one with whom he had regular physical contact. While he used to be subject to teasing and semi-playful attacks against his person, he had never really had anyone with whom he could simply sit. Or, for that matter, anyone with whom he could engage in anything even slightly intimate, like a hug. Without being fully aware of it, he had come to cherish the privilege of being able to do those things with his reptilian companion. Those infrequent occasions when he slept next to Toothless always filled him with a sense of warmth and comfort he'd never had from anyone else.

Finally Hiccup sat down next to his friend, leaned against the warm scaled flank and turned his full attention to drawing. There were several minor problems he needed to work out before he could begin building the new parts, and sitting next to Toothless in their cove gave him the peace of mind he needed to focus.

By the time he was satisfied with what he had on paper, it was only an hour or so until sunset. He shifted painfully, putting away his journal and trying to get his shortened leg to stop cramping. He'd ignored it while he'd been working and now realized he'd spent most of that time with it tucked at a bad angle. It was one of the things he'd learned about how his body reacted to the loss of a limb. He could sometimes feel things in the part of his leg that no longer existed, yet at other times he could unwittingly strain the muscles of that leg without feeling any discomfort until it reached seriously painful levels. Gobber had called them 'ghost pains', but they were all too real to him.

When he was finally able to stand, Hiccup once again approached Toothless' head. This time, though, the Night Fury was well and truly asleep. He could tell from the deeper, more relaxed breathing and from the way his body laid, wings partly unfurled at his sides and legs splayed to their natural limits toward the ground.

Hating the thought of waking him, Hiccup spent several minutes watching him sleep. As his gaze swept over the graceful form, the awe he felt toward his friend filled him without reserve. He was such a powerful creature, yet could be as gentle as a mother with her child. He was capable of attacking enemies with devastating force. He was also capable of being as playful as one of the village's kittens.

A line caught his eyes. Hiccup had seen it before, it and all the others. It sent a tiny shiver through his slender frame. He stepped closer and carefully knelt by the large dark body.

His hand reached out and lightly traced the deep scar left behind by the ropes. This one crossed Toothless' neck on the right. There were many others, most of them his doing. That single, painfully regrettable act of his had greatly marred the being before him. The evidence sent thorny prickles deep into his heart. Under his calloused hand he could feel the groove that had been cut into scales and skin and muscle.

How much pain, he wondered once again, as the bola had wrapped its unforgiving arms of rope around him? How much terror as he plummeted out of control toward the ground? How lucky was he that he hit the island and not the water?

The guilt rose up once more, ever present. It wasn't as bad as it had been. He reminded himself that he'd been forgiven. Knew it as a fact.

But it didn't change the scars that lined the Fury's dark skin.

Still his fingers traced the line along his friend's neck. A single phrase kept repeating itself in his mind.

"I did this."

The memory of his dream returned and he pulled his hand away as though it had been burned. He forcefully closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, hating what his ignorance had done to the dragon sleeping before him.

He'd been wrong. He had hurt Toothless and no matter what the dragon said, nothing he could do would every truly make it right.

But he could still try.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN**

I'm sorry this chapter took so long to get done. I was held up for a week during the Thanksgiving holiday, visiting family and friends out of state.

There are two major notes I need to add to this.

The first: Anyone who's watched Dreamworks' "Gift of the Night Fury" is probably assuming I took one of the story elements from that short and stuck it in this chapter. I won't spoil it for those who haven't seen it, but I will say that my use of that story element was planned months ago. It was, in fact, one of the key points I made in my notes, planned out before I even posted the first chapter of "Broken." I understand that the timing is certainly suspect, but if I were a faster writer I could have made it look like Dreamworks had copied me instead of the other way round.

The second: If you're vaguely obsessed (!) with this movie like I am, you may have noticed that Toothless has numerous scars on his body. The film makers put those scars there to correlate with where the ropes bound him so tightly when he got shot down. I wanted those scars to be reminders to Hiccup of what had happened between them, an unavoidable marker of accountability on his part.

I'm not 100% certain what the next chapter needs to focus on so there will be a few extra days involved in working on plot arc. Hang tight folks, we'll get to the end of this eventually!


	15. Fires

.

Broken

Chapter 15: Fires

He used to consider it the hardest part of his duties as chief of the tribe. Settling disputes between individuals or families tested one's wit and patience like nothing else. It was often a balancing act between the wants or needs of one party against another. Many times it was easy to see the answer and the hard part was convincing the loser of the argument to let go of their claim. Other times it was very difficult to tell who had the more legitimate grievance. That's when Stoick would exert his authority as chief to force a balanced settlement, one that usually left both sides equally disappointed.

Like most other aspects of his life, the performance of his duties had gotten harder (not to mention stranger) because of the presence of dragons within the village. His first task of the morning was a notable example. It was a first in several ways, in fact.

Sheep were seen as semi-communal property. Villagers were encouraged to raise their own small flocks, but they were often kept together for better protection against predators. To mark any one sheep as being the property of an individual or family, they were simply fitted with a collar and a metal tag bearing their rune. There had been occasions in the past when desperate or mischievous folks had 're-collared' a sheep they wanted. Such petty thievery was not unknown on Berk.

Now that the main threat to the sheep no longer harassed them, some folks were trying to increase the size of their personal flocks to produce more meat and wool. New, smaller pens were being erected in the nearby fields to separate these 'family flocks' and keep them from mingling with other animals.

Before, if a sheep were missing it was likely either re-collared or taken by a dragon during a raid. Now Stoick faced the possibility of a 'tamed' dragon being the culprit responsible for pilfering from the Ornolf's flock. If the dragon were found guilty, should it be the burden of the 'owner' to recompense them? Could a rider influence a dragon enough to keep such behavior from happening in the first place? Should they consider creating new laws to deal with the actions of dragons that were seen as belonging to a villager?

The idea of trying to prevent a dragon from acting on its instincts when looking for a convenient meal could, in his mind, only lead back to the place they'd been last autumn. How else could one discourage such behavior except with punishment that would show the creature that sheep could not be safely taken? And once they started interfering with any dragon's desire to feast on raw mutton, how could anyone keep such actions from escalating back into the war they'd just ended?

The presence of feral dragons was another problem. He hadn't considered it until now, but those winged reptiles that didn't cleave to one of the villagers might wander among them without notice. It appeared as though the dragons were social enough that they didn't mind sharing space within the boundaries of Berk. If some disturbance occurred that was proved to be caused by a dragon, how would one prove which dragon it was? Stoick seriously doubted they could collar them the way they did the sheep.

When he thought of the elaborate leather and metal contraption Hiccup's black beast wore, he wondered if it might not be such a bad idea.

Stoick set those thoughts aside as he came to the Lunby's front door. Dotta was sitting in front of their house with a mortar and pestle mixing soot from their hearth with the juice of the dark berries that grew on the far side of the island. Her youngest son Hakon was rolling in the grass at her feet, his linen breechclout as thoroughly colored with grass stains as his mother's fingers were from the ink she made.

"Stoick!" Dotta lifted her chin in greeting, her hands being too busy to wave. Her face was as grim as ever, her serious expression compounded by the burn scars on the right side of her neck; the result of a tiny splash of Gronckle fire many years ago. The scarring was usually bright pink and red in color, but would darken when her temper was up. He noticed there was indeed a tinge of color about her neck as he came closer.

"Good morning, Dotta. How's the family?"

"You'll have to tell us," she quipped, her tone matching her expression. "Glad to see you've come."

Stoick nodded. Dotta's lack of good humor was telling but not unusual. She tended to dwell on bad news and misfortune. She hadn't been like that before the burns. "Is Herdis about?"

The woman shook her head. "Sent her for bread. Should be back soon." She tipped her head to indicate the side of the house. "Blacktongue's round back."

Dotta's saving grace was her willingness to let her husband deal with any problems that arose between them and the other families on Berk. She was aware that her temper could interfere with settling such disputes and let him handle them. Not without keeping a close eye on the situation, of course. She nudged her two year old son with her booted foot. "Hakon, go fetch yer da."

The chief held up a hand to forestall the boy's errand. "It's alright. I'll find him, I'm sure."

As he walked around the house, the boy followed him. He heard his mother call him back, but the lad chose to be deaf to her summons. Doubtless that wouldn't go well for him later, but since she didn't pursue him immediately the lad continued to trail him to the back of the house.

Some newly planted onions and cabbages were sprouting in the small garden where Blacktongue was spreading sheep dung with a spade. As Stoick and Hakon came into view the young man thrust the spade into the dung basket and reached out to take the chief's hand. The man smelled of earth and sweat as well as the dung he'd been tossing about. Stoick smiled as he took the offered hand. It was the heady scent of honest work, and bothered him not a bit.

"Bram, good to see you. Your crop's got a strong start, I see."

"Thank ye, Stoick." Bram Blacktongue nodded to the green sprouts. "Good rains, no attacks, plenty of time to tend to such. Makes a man's job easier, eh?" The relaxed smile that came so readily to him did much to balance the harder edge his wife often presented.

Stoick squinted at the man's grinning face. A smile of his own pulled at his lips. "I also see you've been going at the inkberries again."

Blacktongue's discoloration came from his strange fondness for the painfully sour berries that the villagers only used for making ink. Having never been successfully broken of the habit of eating at least a quarter of the inkberry harvest each year, he had permanently discolored his tongue and gained his name. If Stoick hadn't seen Dotta making ink out front, the dark stains that temporarily marked the man's prominent front teeth would have told him that the inkberry harvest was well under way.

"Ach, what could I do? Herdis and Dotta came back yesterday with two full baskets of 'em! Two!"

Stoick chuckled. "Well, Hiccup should be happy to hear of the harvest. I think he's down to his last pot of ink from last year." He spotted motion behind the other man. "Uh oh."

Blacktongue turned to see Hakon squatting down next to the leafy sprigs poking up from the soil. As a small hand reached out to grasp one of the tender shoots, he swept down and lifted the lad up. "Oi, no pulling up the sprouts, boy!" He hoisted the unhappy lad to his hip and watched as the small face crumpled with vexation. No sooner had the child begun to fuss, he distracted him by sticking his thoroughly blackened tongue out at him and waggling it. Hakon's mood quickly turned as he kept trying to grasp the wriggling protrusion.

When both had swiftly tired of the game, Blacktongue turned to Stoick and said in all seriousness, "I hope you can get this straightened out. Dotta's in a state and Herdis is solid sure it weren't Bitterbug's doing."

"I'm sure we'll get it sorted," he answered. "What do you know about it so far?"

The younger man scratched at his sparse black beard and shook his head. "All I know is the Ornolfs say they're missing three ewes and they found Nadder tracks around the pen."

"Have you had a look at those tracks yourself?"

"Well, no," Blacktongue said quietly. "Haven't had time, really. Been out on Rorik those last few times with Hogknee. Between that and taking care of the plantings and this one here," he bounced Hakon on his hip, "I've been plenty busy."

The chief nodded with understanding and slapped him on the shoulder. "Think I'll go have a look at that pen. Where do they keep it?"

Blacktongue pointed. "There're three in the northeast field. Theirs is the closest one. They painted it blue."

Stoick nodded and trundled off for a short walk after assuring he'd be back shortly. He still wasn't sure how he was going to resolve the matter, but a look at the pen where the sheep had gone missing might give him some ideas.

It was a gorgeous spring day and perfect for a walk, even a short one. It took little time to move beyond the edge of the village and into the nearby field where sheep usually grazed. He could hear their bleating before he actually saw them. There were more than thirty rams and ewes wandering loosely around the field under the watchful eyes of several village children. Along the edge of the open field, the three wooden pens Blacktongue had spoken of held another dozen or so each.

The pen painted blue was the nearest but before he approached, Stoick stood some distance away and observed the sheep within. They did seem a bit skittish to him, spending more time watching their surroundings and making more noise than those around them. He slowly walked up to the pen, continuing to watch their behavior. Seeing him sent the animals into a panic, jostling each other at the far end and crying out their distress. He stood next to the pen for several minutes until the handful of beleaguered creatures finally seemed to understand that they were not being attacked. Still, they would not approach him.

Looking at the ground, he noticed the area outside the pen was as torn and trodden as the ground inside. Most of the clear prints were from the boots of villagers. There were other marks, but they were muddled up with boot prints so it was impossible to tell what they'd been originally. He circled around the pen, ignoring the sheep that worked their noisy way around the inside trying to stay as far away from him as possible.

There were some marks around the pen that didn't come from any boot, but they were fairly shallow if one considered the softness of the ground and the weight of a full grown dragon. He knew an attacking dragon might not necessarily land in a spot but merely touch ground before flapping off with its prize. If that's what had caused the marks outside the pen, why would a hungry dragon touch ground there and not inside where the sheep actually were?

Try as he might, Stoick could not find anything outside the pen that resembled clear Nadder footprints. And if the prints the Ornolfs had seen had been inside the pen, the sheep had obliterated them long ago.

As he stood there thinking, the small flock calmed. Then they began to stir again, loudly, and he realized that two of the children on shepherd duty were approaching him. "Chief!" the older one called, while the smaller waved vigorously. They didn't appear to notice the alarm they caused within the pen.

"Signy," he said amiably to the older girl. "Yrsa, good to see you tending the flocks." The younger boy smiled at the praise given from none other than the tribe's leader. "How are they doing? Any problems?"

"Not with us here!" Yrsa proclaimed. "We've been watching all morning!" He patted a wooden sword thrust through the belt of his tunic. "We know what to do if we spot trouble!"

"Ya," Signy agreed with a nudge at the back of her fellow shepherd's head. "We ring the bell."

Stoick smiled at them both. Signy had it right; the bell was to be rung if any problems befell the flock. But he also remembered his time as a boy, watching the fields with an almost identical sword in hand and just waiting for a dragon foolish enough to try taking any sheep under his protection.

He looked around at the field, the pens and the empty sky and wondered once more where the Ornolf's sheep had gone. And how they had gone.

He turned his gaze back to the children, his expression now serious. "So I guess you've heard about the sheep that went missing a while back, eh?"

"Yeah, but we weren't on duty that night!" Signy quickly proclaimed. Yrsa only looked unsure at the direction the conversation had turned.

"Oh, I know. That's not what I'm worried about. What I'm wondering is..." He looked around at the fields and all they contained, then turned his gaze back to the shepherds. "Have you noticed anything... strange here lately? Anything at all?"

The two youths looked at each other. Both looked worried. Stoick felt a sudden chill in his stomach.

"Show him," Yrsa whispered.

Signy looked at Stoick, the concern obvious in her dark brown eyes. He nodded encouragingly. That gave her the impetus to run back to where they'd been sitting before he arrived and retrieve some small object. She sprinted back, holding it out as she took her last few running steps. He nodded absently as he took it, understanding what it was and what it signified.

It was a leather sheep collar. It was perhaps as wide as his thumb, without dye or paint. More importantly, the metal tag was still dangling from it. Unfortunately, the teeth that had easily sheared it off its bearer had closed with tremendous force on that tag and gouged it deeply. The rune was unreadable.

"Where did you find this?"

"At the edge of the field, this morning." Signy spoke quietly, as though still anxious their discovery might mean trouble for them in some way.

Stoick stared at the collar, clouds gathering in his mind. He needed to know more. He looked around the field, up at the trees that surrounded it and then back toward the village. He brought his gaze back to the field and strode off across it. He held a restraining hand up toward the children. "Stay here a moment, would you? I need to look around."

He cast his eyes back and forth, looking for the evidence he hoped to find. He crossed the field several times, in several directions before he found what he'd been looking for. There, amid the tufts of grass and clover, were a set of prints set in the soft earth. His brow furrowed.

"Gronckle?" he muttered. He continued his search. Only a few steps away he found more. "Nightmare?" He studied the prints closely before moving on. He noticed a spot of torn earth and uprooted grass nearby. "Nadder," he said darkly. He looked at where the prints were, at the pens across the fields from where he stood and the line of trees where the collar had been dropped. "What's happened here?" This was something he hadn't expected, and he wasn't certain what it meant.

He strode back toward Blacktongue's house, thanking the children for their help and asking them to speak up if they found or saw anything else. As he walked away, from behind he heard, "She gives us rides."

Stoick stopped and turned. Yrsa had stepped forward. "Chief Stoick? Herdis lets us ride Bitterbug sometimes. She takes us all around the village. Walking, I mean, not flying." His voice softened. "We're not big enough." When he didn't respond, Yrsa seemed to dig deep within himself and find an extra bit of courage to face the leader of the tribe. "She would never hurt the sheep!"

The statement of a child, he thought. But it brought to mind the statement his own child once made concerning a favored pet.

Signy stepped up behind Yrsa. "You won't make her go away, will you?"

He was as unprepared for that question as he had been for the footprints he'd found in the field. He raised the hand holding the severed collar. "Don't worry, we'll get it all sorted out."

It was all he could promise, and he wasn't at all sure he could keep it.

* * *

Stoick ran across Hogknee later that afternoon on his way to the Haralds' small bakery. He'd had a long morning and he remembered there was no bread in the Haddock house. The fisherman hailed him and he gave a cheerful shout as he approached. He'd obviously been after the same thing as he was holding a woven basket of bread that he could smell. The tempting aroma got his stomach growling, as if he needed to be reminded how thin his breakfast had been.

"Is there any left," he jested good naturedly at the many loaves the slim man carried.

"Oh, aye," Hogknee answered in all earnestness. "I spent the morning grinding for them, so-" He hefted the basked to indicate that the loaves were his payment for helping the Haralds. "There's enough flour they'll be busy the rest of the day!"

"Ah, good." Stoick smiled and nodded. "How are the preparations coming along?" As chief he was well aware of what remained to make ready for the trading mission, but what he really wanted was Rorik's owner and captain's opinion of the work.

"Going well, I'd say. I think we've finally talked Gobber into a sensible balance of goods and people."

A grin lifted his substantial mustache and he nodded, having heard from the master smith himself how woefully small Rorik was and how much valuable space would be gained if they left one or two folks behind. "How's Jaspin doing?"

Hogknee smiled widely, letting the large gap in his front teeth show. "Happy as a Viking in Valhalla. Mord says he's got a knack for the sword and Snotlout's pushing him hard so he's learning quick." His smile faded a bit. "He does miss the fishing, though. Especially since that last trip with Bitequick."

He nodded. "I'd heard about that."

"Mmm. Seems she won't go out unless he does, either. Siggin asked him to send her out with his crew, but she wouldn't have it."

An idea formed in Stoick's mind. He put a friendly hand on Hogknee's shoulder and steered him slightly away from the few villagers that happened to be nearby. "Eh, Hogknee, I wonder if you'd tell me something." When they were safely out of earshot, he lowered his voice and asked, "How well does Bitequick obey Jaspin? Can he really control her if she does something wrong?"

Hogknee looked confused for a moment. "You know, I can't say she's ever done anything to test him that way." He thought about it a moment and Stoick kept quiet while the man furrowed his brow. "She only eats what he feeds her. As far as I know she won't go after any food left out to dry or bleed out." He shrugged. "The only thing she wouldn't do that he wanted was go out after a boat he wasn't on. Can't really blame her for that."

"No, I suppose not," he answered quietly.

Suddenly the fisherman's expression darkened. "Oh, there's something else you might want to know, thinking on dragons."

"What?" He knew the younger man was not one to raise alarms needlessly. Whatever it was, it was most likely worth hearing.

"Anvindr's sounding off again." Hogknee twitched his head in the direction of the great hall. "I heard him going on last night over a game. I thought you'd talked him out of that, but I guess he's still convinced."

Not good news, no, but not the worst. His short interview with Herdis had gained him nothing with which to make a decision about the Ornolfs's missing ewes. Maybe he could at least get Anvindr to set aside his misplaced enthusiasm. Perhaps his day would not be wasted after all.

Though he'd rather have gotten to the bottom of the Nadder problem.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon by the time Stoick had managed to trade a few silver pennies for an armful of fresh baked loaves and get them to the house. He stored them in the tightly made cupboard designed to keep the mice out, barely noticed the absence of his offspring or the black beast and headed back out.

It took a while to find Anvindr. His sometimes hunting partner and would be lieutenant (as though anyone could possibly replace Spitelout) seldom stayed in one place for very long. His efforts to earn a living often took him all over the village as well as the island.

This was the kind of thing Hiccup needed to learn if he was to become a capable leader. Those who only saw Stoick apply the laws of the village or make decisions that weren't addressed by common laws often assumed there was little else to his work. But much of his time was spent in gently nudging those he talked to away from profitless conflict with their fellow villagers. He preferred to think of that part of his duty as dealing with fires. Why spend your time putting out fires when you could douse hot spots before they took flame?

And Anvindr had been a hot spot for a long time. He often felt he spent more energy nudging and dousing that one Viking than any other. Aside from raising Hiccup and the war that had just ended, it was the one task that never seemed finished.

Stoick knew what the man's real problem was. He had only the barest grasp of his own reality. The man thought he knew the best way to fix everyone's problems despite the fact that he seldom truly understood those problems. He was only barely capable of performing a few simple tasks around the village. And worse, he desired power.

Stoick had known Anvindr long enough to keep his pride salved at every opportunity. For years he'd worked to keep him from feeling he had to do something outside the bounds of common sense to be taken seriously. For the most part, and with the help of a few trustworthy folks, Anvindr's desire to be viewed as a leader was quietly managed in a way that kept things from getting out of control.

Without the pressure of constant dragon attacks to use as an excuse to nudge Anvindr away from dangerous ideas and actions, Stoick had unexpectedly had a harder time managing him. He'd also not anticipated the fervor with which his hunting companion would take to the scaly monsters. His unforeseen desire to tame a dragon was matched only by his utter inability to do so. One more thing he wasn't capable of.

Finally, after nearly an hour of searching he happened to see him walking towards the great hall. The man's distinctive three pronged beard was easy to spot, even from a distance. Stoick shouted his name.

"Anvindr!"

He was too far away or he had something on his mind that kept him from noticing the hail. Stoick shouted again. When he still didn't get a response, he cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed the man's childhood name as loud as he could.

"KETTLECRACK!"

This time his fellow Viking paused and looked around until he spotted the chief. Stoick waved to him and watched as he approached. He noticed something dangling about his neck on a thin leather thong. It looked to be a boar tusk. Stoick seemed to remember he'd had a fairly successful hunt the last time he'd gone out. Though why he'd returned with only two hind legs from his kill, he never knew.

"Chief!" the man shouted as he got closer. "Not seen ya in a while. How goes it?"

"Good, good. How are things with you?" He watched the other man closely, wanting to gauge his mood and determine what he might be up to.

"Lookin' up, they are!" He stopped a few steps away, grinning and stroking the tusk as though he wanted to make certain it was noticed. "Way up!" He laughed a strangely excited laugh. It put Stoick in mind of a young boy given his first real sword, heart brimming with a giddy rush of fearless bravado.

"Oh?"

"You might not have heard," he said in that down-the-nose way he sometimes had when he thought he'd figured out something no one else had. "I've tamed myself a Monstrous Nightmare."

Stoick's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't heard, but that wasn't what disturbed him. He made sure his expression didn't change. "Oh, really?" As unlikely as it seemed, if the man had actually gotten a Nightmare to take up with him, it could mean a great deal more trouble than before.

"Aye." Anvindr gave a negligent wave of his hand. "It's either not grown or it's a runt. I guess I'll know in a few years. I suppose it's more of a Not-So-Monstrous Nightmare." He laughed again, obviously quite pleased with himself.

Using his long experience with the man, Stoick decided the best way to handle this newest development was to play it down as much as possible. He kept his expression calm, thoughtful. He didn't let his concerns show in his voice, either.

"Huh," he said softly. "That's surprising."

Anvindr's smile diminished slightly. "Eh?"

The chief slowly turned toward the great hall, which was also the direction of his own home. As he turned he made sure there were no curious ears nearby. He didn't need the man to feel as though he had to prove anything to other members of the tribe. Since they were essentially alone, there would be no distractions or complications.

"I just never..." He paused, glancing aside to make sure the other was listening. "I never saw you as the kind of Viking that would change so easily. Not after all those _years_ of fighting them." He sighed softly, and took the next few steps in silence, letting his words sink in. "I guess I'm surprised you can trust them. Myself, I think it'll be a long, _long_ time before I believe they can truly be tamed."

A few more moments passed in silence as Anvindr considered his leader's words. But apparently he wasn't completely swayed from his course.

"Well, you know, it's like any beast. You have to keep at it, make it understand it's better off with you than without you. Fish work a treat for that." His voice strengthened a bit. "I don't really think of it as a dragon anymore. It's more like a, a..." He waved his arms expansively. "Like a flying horse." His grin was back. "With fire."

Dismayed, Stoick gritted his teeth and tried to keep his temper in check. He was worried he might soon run out of ways to encourage Anvindr to stay out of trouble and have to simply lay down the law with him. Knowing Kettlecrack's own temper, that was a sure way to push him harder in the wrong direction. Before he could think of how to respond, the man was laying out his plans.

"I'm going to train Grimjaws to fly into battle. Once I figure out how, we can train others. Can ya just see it, Chief? A hundred flying Vikings, swinging swords and axes and the dragons spittin' fire! What a battle it would be!"

Stoick stared, forced to douse this hot spot before it got entirely out of hand. "Battle who?" he asked quietly.

Anvindr grinned again, arrogance heavy in his voice. "Anyone we choose."

"We haven't met any of the other tribes in generations. What if they've all grown large and powerful? What if we're the smallest tribe of them all?"

"That's what the dragons are for!"

"And what if we're also the last to learn how to use them for battle?"

Anvindr's face fell. "What?"

Stoick kept his voice calm and level. He had his opening and he made use of it.

"We don't know what's happened with the other tribes. What if we're the only ones who haven't been using dragons? Can you imagine the slaughter? Tiny Berk, going against Vikings with thrice their numbers who just happen to also be riding dragons. Generations of experience we don't have, numbers we don't have."

With a frown and a rumble in his voice that meant his good mood was slipping, Anvindr said, "You don't know that's true."

"I don't know it's not, either. And I'm not committing to something like that without knowing which way things stand."

For a moment there was silence. Anvindr simply stared at him, his eyes glittering in the evening sun.

Stoick was not happy about this conversation, but he tried again to get the idea across. "We've only just stopped fighting the beasts. We need to fill the larders and build boats before we take on a new foe."

Anvindr's face grew dark. "You sound like you don't want to be a Viking any more."

It was a shock that went directly to his heart. He reacted without thought. He raised a clenched fist and took a single step forward. "What did you say?"

With Kettlecrack's famous temper, he held his ground. Though he did lean back slightly, aware of having seriously displeased the village's leader. "We're Vikings, we're supposed to fight. The harder the battle, the more glorious the victory, the more glorious the death! I want to see Valhalla. Don't you?"

"Fools don't set foot in those halls!" His anger was winding itself tightly in his chest when he noticed motion behind Anvindr. Someone, he couldn't tell who, was walking by some distance away. Stoick's outburst had caused them to stop and look their way. He forced himself to calm down and approach this as a leader, not a warrior. As a leader, this was not the way he wanted this discussion to go. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took deep breaths, trying to think of a way to explain. "Warriors don't pick up rocks and charge enemies carrying swords. Warriors don't put their trust in weapons they haven't tested. And they don't have glorious battles when they charge blindly forward in ignorance."

Anvindr didn't argue, but he still looked angry and unwilling to concede the point.

"We've been fighting dragons our whole lives, Anvindr. We're good at it. Everyone who holds a sword in Berk has proven their worth as warriors, time and again. And now that our enemies have stopped attacking us and lay around the village like lazy cats, you want to trust _them_ to carry you into battle? To the halls of Valhalla?"

Doubt slowly clouded Anvindr's eyes. Perhaps he'd finally started thinking about what he was proposing. He was stubborn, though. He was obviously certain his idea was a good one.

"If I can prove it, if I can train him..."

Stoick realized the man was set on his idea. He suddenly wondered if Anvindr's personal history of failure might be able to do what the tribe's leader apparently could not. If he let him try to train this 'Grimjaws' of his and the plan failed, perhaps that would be the end of the idea. More, it would give him time to figure out how best to handle this new path he'd chosen to tread.

Berk's leader decided to take the risk. He finally nodded and laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "Do that. Work at it. It might be that we'll need to do exactly that. But first we have to find out what the other tribes are up to. We need to talk to them, trade with them. We have to use our eyes before we can use our arms."

Anvindr's eyes lit up again, that childish glee at being seen as important. "Aye, I will. It'll work, you'll see." Filled with new purpose, he took off toward his house rather than the great hall. Stoick supposed he was going to start harassing his dragon immediately.

For once, he could almost feel sorry for one of the bloody creatures.

Stoick started to head for the great hall, feeling a need for a mug of ale. His thoughts were in turmoil, and he knew he needed a quiet place to think. More, he was very hungry. He made for his house instead.

The result of one of his other errands that morning was hanging from the eaves when he got home, a few pennies traded for some fresh meat. The shank of mutton would make a thick, hearty stew. Never mind that stewing was the only way he knew to cook, it would taste delicious and go well with the fresh bread he'd bought earlier.

Dark thoughts kept sneaking into his head as he prepared the evening meal. He was right back where he'd been before he'd asked Freygerd's advice, before he'd talked to Gobber. He'd almost felt he had his mind straight about how Berk was going to exist with the new way of things. He kept remembering Gobber's words. "I'm still a Viking! I was born a Viking, I'll die a Viking!"

Stoick was starting to wonder which was true. Were they Vikings because of who they were or because of what they did? Or did they do what they did because of who they were? The question had raised itself anew because of Anvindr, and despite the advice of those he'd sought out he was still uncertain of the answer.

In his heart, he felt Anvindr was right. Fighting dragons had long been the paramount distinction of a true Viking. Before the appearance of the flying furnaces Vikings had raided and fought one another, or anyone else who was worth attacking. There were always battles to fight and so long as one kept one's weapons sharp and the warriors' spirit in their heart, Valhalla would be their destination.

But now, with so few ships and a real need to build back their food stores, could Berk afford to go on the attack? His experience as a leader said no while his Viking heart said yes. Harder to answer was the question of whether or not dragons were the key to remaining true to their heritage.

As Stoick watched the stew begin to simmer he had an uncomfortable thought. He suddenly found himself wondering if he should be dousing fires or lighting them.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission


	16. The strength of scars

.

Broken

Chapter 16: The Strength of Scars

He had been here before, played false by a salty gust that should have given him no trouble. Instead of adjusting without thought he wobbled and over corrected and plummeted. There were four shallow holes where he had repeatedly thumped into the ground. Frustration began to rise but he smothered it. Things were different this time.

This time Two Hearts had a skilled flight mate comfortably perched across his shoulders. They had many and more days of skilled flight behind them. They had learned the winds. More, they had learned each other.

It was still difficult, though. It was still new. He even had doubts the results of their effort would be worth the trouble. Flying with Featherstone was more than flying and he now had little interest in climbing the cool sea air by himself. Even the idea of hunting for himself held scant appeal. There were other, more personal misgivings as well; ones he didn't care to dwell upon.

He knew, however, that Featherstone thought it important. And he couldn't deny that Kin without the ability to fly properly were Kin diminished in power.

Featherstone laid his small, warm foreclaw against his neck and quietly said, "Wait." Instead of launching himself again, he folded his black wings and watched as his flight mate climbed down and crawled beneath his belly. He felt a slight tugging on the strands of dried bleater skin that now dangled beneath his hinds. He craned his head around to watch, amused by the sight of the young preytooth trying to press his thin body under his own. Feeling playful, he shifted his body slightly and raised his rear leg on that side. Before Featherstone could react, he lightly scratched that one's head with the claws of that paw. He was pleased to hear the humor/happiness sound that preytooths made.

Featherstone was attentive though, and quickly changed whatever he'd found wrong. As he climbed back onto his shoulders, he muttered something too quiet to understand. The tone of it left little doubt, however. He was less than pleased with his own work.

For a moment Two Hearts wondered if perhaps his flight mate's work was the cause of his difficulties. But that tasted false to him. Each time the wind had shifted and he'd tried to use the new parts to control his dead tail fin he'd failed. It had nothing to do with what Featherstone had created or how it worked. At least, in his mind it didn't. He was still used to his flight mate working his dead fin in perfect harmony with his living fin to let them fly true. He had to keep reminding himself he was now in control of both halves of his tail, and that caused him to falter and fail. He was also used to his rider influencing how and where they flew. He often caught himself waiting for the subtle cues from Featherstone that would direct his flight.

The wind rushing over the top of the sea cliff gusted again and he took advantage. He snapped his wings out and lifted gracefully. The fibrous strand that connected him to the tree stump pulled taut until it fairly hummed. Featherstone used his controls to keep them steady until he was prepared. He grasped with his hind paws for the dangling wooden rods that let him work his dead fin. Once he had them, he grunted, "Ready." He heard the raspy slither of metal against metal as Featherstone withdrew from his own controls.

Left, still. Left, still. Right left left still.

When he concentrated, it was manageable. Not too different from the first, short hopping flights near his egg nest. It was a matter of teaching his body to respond to his wishes without having to think about it so hard.

Right right right, still. Still, still. The steady breeze let him try a gentle movement. He banked slightly left, then right. He was satisfied with the result. He moved both rods to flare and rose half a tail length up, then down. A grumble of pleasure rolled up his throat.

The wind heard him and gave a twisting slap that he took mostly with his wings and mid wings. It wasn't enough, though. He worked the rods while arching his tail to stay level and did it backwards. Again. This time the next unexpected gust filled his right wing and instinct sent his tail spiraling helplessly to counteract. He partially folded his right wing but it was too late. His body spun and his legs splayed and he hit the ground on his right side.

If Featherstone had been straddling his shoulders instead of riding with his legs tucked, he would have pinned his flight mate's leg beneath his body. As it was, his rider wound up dumped on the ground a small distance away, sprawled on his back and groaning.

"Featherstone!" he called, worried for his preytooth partner. He wriggled himself upright and tried to move closer. The fibrous strand stopped him. He pulled against it, hard, but it wouldn't let him go. His anger rose up but he calmed almost immediately as his soft, pink companion sat up.

"I live," he declared. "Maybe." He tried to stand up but couldn't. His dead leg was twisted. A faint red whiff of pain hit his nose the same time a quiet whimper reached his ear canals. Featherstone hissed quietly and used his thin, clever claws to move the dead leg back into place.

Two Hearts hated the thought that he had caused his flight mate any pain. It wasn't intentional, they both knew, but such accidents had happened several times since he started learning this new way to fly. He crooned an apology to him, still pulling against the strand.

With his dead leg corrected, Featherstone stood. He wavered, like wide wings in a fickle wind. Then he shreek-shuffed over to where Two Hearts strained against the binding strand. The pain smell was gone and a quick sniff of the joint told him there was no damage. He nosed his rider's chest and warbled, "All good now?"

Featherstone didn't have those words yet, he knew. His preytooth was an intuitive creature and understood much of what he intended, even if his pathetic ears couldn't yet hear most of his words.

"Yes, good now," that one answered. Blunt nails rubbed near his jaw hinge, not quite at the 'drop spot' but close enough to feel real pleasure. Thus did they reaffirm their commitment to each other. "Again?"

"Yes, again."

Before he climbed back onto his shoulders, his flight mate said, "No Teeth, I have idea." He took a step back and gazed at him. "Let me teach you how to use the sticks."

That confused him. How could Featherstone teach him? The little preytooth didn't always make sense but he did seem to understand Two Hearts' puzzlement.

"Let me use controls while you hold your sticks. Don't hold hard, hold gentle. When you feel stick move, move with it. I keep us in air, you follow my moves. Do this long time, you learn."

It was times like this the ghost wing wished he had better use of Featherstone's words. Despite having spent many, many cycles perched on the preytooths' woodcaves at night, listening to their talk, he still had trouble understanding some of the things they said. He'd gained much when Featherstone became his flight mate and spent many days talking to him. But sometimes it wasn't quite enough. He was fairly certain he knew what his flight mate was telling him, but he couldn't comprehend the intention behind it. Wasn't the purpose of the new sticks to let Two Hearts work the dead tail himself?

He hesitated, trying to get it clear in his mind. Featherstone apparently took this as apprehension. The preytooth stepped close, placed his foreclaw gently on his snout between his nostrils and said two words that banished the doubts.

"Trust me."

Two Hearts rumbled his willingness, and they took off once more.

It still took him some time to figure out what it was Featherstone had meant, but once he did he began to see the wisdom of it. His rider was strong at working the tail, and their controls were connected. When Featherstone worked his, the sticks moved. Instead of trying to move the sticks, he concentrated on learning _how_ they moved during each maneuver. His preytooth was, in fact, teaching him how to work his dead tail fin.

* * *

The sun was about to hide and they were both tired. Two Hearts was also very hungry.

"Fish," he said, using one of the newest words Featherstone had learned. "Featherstone fish Two Hearts."

"Yes," his flight mate agreed. "Fish would be good." He finished gathering up the fibrous strand and set it on his shoulder to carry. As soon as he was mounted they took off. It was a short flight from the cliff to the nest but they took their time in spite of their weariness and hunger. As they flew, Two Hearts continued to lightly grip the sticks to feel what Featherstone was doing with his controls. He was getting better already, sometimes able to anticipate what his preytooth partner would do. Once he learned this new way to respond to the wind's needs, he would again be in balance with the air and the wind. He would be able to fly alone.

The thought of flying alone still made a cold place in his liver. It was a fledgling's foolishness, he knew. He would have to join that hunt sooner or later. He would have to look for her.

Two Hearts had last seen his dam a few days before he was grounded and injured. He hadn't worried for her during his strange captivity. Nor was he concerned after Featherstone and he grounded the Great Eel. But after his flight mate's recovery, he'd had thoughts of her.

Long Eye, having named herself for her extremely keen sight, was the only other ghost wing living in Fire Nest. His sire had warned away all the other Watchers when the huge form of the Great Eel settled itself in the glowing depths of the nest's main cave. After he died in a vicious, and hopeless, battle against the invader, there had been only the two of them left. She, obviously of breeding age, had become a thrall as all the others in the nest.

Having been freed of that parasitic influence, she would be able to do as she chose. But what had become of her? Was she still at Fire Nest, hoping the other ghost wings might someday return? Had she left, sickened by the memories of her time supporting that enormous Kin?

Did she think of him?

If she did, had she figured him dead during his long absence? Was she simply waiting for his return? Or was she perhaps displeased with his choice to stay with his flight mate after freeing the Nest?

Had she been killed?

Long Eye had done her best to keep her hatchling fed and protected. She'd taught him the winds as a fledgling. She'd shown him how to attack the preytooth nest without being seen. She'd taken him on her ranging flights as Watcher and explained his responsibilities to the Nest.

So where had she gone?

As long as Featherstone controlled his dead tail fin and didn't try to return to Fire Nest, he was content to wait and see if she would come looking for him. Perhaps he might eventually hear some word of her whereabouts. But if he was given control of his dead fin, he would have to go back. He would have to look for her, find out the truth of what had happened to her.

He had asked those Kin who'd come from that Nest if they'd seen her. None had. Crush Claw had been the latest from there and he'd told of the return of most breeding pairs. That had only made sense. Fire Nest was their home and with the Great Eel gone, there was no reason to leave. They would doubtless be raising new clutches in the clear air of freedom they now enjoyed.

But if Long Eye wasn't living in Fire Nest then it no longer had any Watchers. There weren't any ghost wings there to _be_ Watchers. The Nest could get along for a while without any, and there were old stories told among the ghost wings of disasters that had deprived Nests of their Watchers. Typically those stories told of other Kin who had taken on the responsibility. Perhaps Fire Nest would do the same.

His own new Nest, which was in truth the preytooth's nest, had no Watchers. Two Hearts couldn't yet act as a true Watcher for this unnamed Nest. He'd not given much thought to the fact that this new Nest had no Watchers, nor to his own inability to fill that role. His time and energy had been taken up with more pressing needs and problems.

That would change too, when he could control his dead fin. And how would he explain to Featherstone that he would have to go ranging once he could fly on his own? Would his flight mate want to go with him? Could the role of Watcher include a rider?

Two Hearts considered these things as they slowly made their way to where the woodfish gathered on the water. That place was always easy to find, as it smelled of fish all the time. He wished he could find the answers he wanted as easily.

They settled near the water where the woodfish gently bobbed in the rippling waves. There were fish here, many fish. The fibrous husks preytooths constructed to carry large or numerous things lay about, reeking deliciously of newly caught silversides and flatheads and roundbacks. He saw many husks near a preytooth who seemed to smell more of fish than preytooth. That one caught sight of them and raised a limb, calling out.

No longer able to hunt as he once had, Two Hearts relied on his flight mate for food. Featherstone had proven as dedicated to his feeding as any sire to a hatchling. This sometimes left him feeling as though he were, in fact, a helpless hatchling, unable to care for itself. But what hatchling had ever worried about going hungry? If sire or dam were able, they would feed their offspring. If any went hungry it was because hunting was poor, and then all went hungry.

To him, Featherstone was as a sire to Two Hearts. When he tipped over a husk full of fish for him to eat, it felt to him of safety and comfort and caring. The one who worked to secure food for one who could not was to be relied upon and trusted, sire or dam or nest mate. Or flight mate.

This was one of the ways in which Featherstone was unique among preytooths. He among all his kind had taken on the task of supporting and caring for one who was Other to him and his kin. That had been the first sign, in fact. The first roundback he'd brought to the cove to nourish a grounded Kin had signaled something Two Hearts had never expected to see: a preytooth who was willing to fly without regard for the wind; a preytooth who went where his eyes and mind and liver led him. At the time, he'd had no idea where the two of them might go together, what they might do. He'd only known Featherstone was different.

His preytooth was trying to lift the husk. With his dead leg it was a nearly impossible task. Featherstone's determination was obvious, but so was his weakness. He approached the husk, intending to help carry it. A faint whiff crossed his nose, and he blinked. Growling low in his throat, he took a step back and shook his head.

"No. Bad."

The two preytooths scented confusion to him. They didn't understand.

"Eel," he snarled, flashing his teeth.

Featherstone looked from the husk to him. Could he not smell it? The odor was as plain as the salt of the sea.

"Eeeel!" he shrieked, and partially raised his wings.

"What's wrong Lung Spasm?" asked the bigger preytooth. "Why is he mad?"

"Wait," said his rider. He opened the top of the husk and the spiky stench of it chilled his liver. Eels brought only death. Why did they have it with the fish? Featherstone thrust his upper limb into the husk and drew out the long body of the poisonous creature. He crouched, glaring at its offensive form.

"Why he not like eel?" asked the bigger one.

"I don't know. No Kin does."

"Well I do." Bigger One grabbed the slender carcass and walked away with it. Finally, he could relax. The poison within eels lay stored inside their bodies and in their mouths. It being with the fish would not spoil them. Otherwise Two Hearts would have burned the husk right then and there, fish or no fish.

Hungry as they were, they did not eat their fish right away. Two Hearts pressed his chest to the ground so Featherstone could lift the husk to his back and the two of them walked to the woodcave where they slept. He sometimes found the preytooth's need to do certain things in certain places or at certain times annoying, but these needs were often strong. If it was important to Featherstone, he could wait a bit for his fish.

Once they got to the woodcave, he rolled the husk onto the ground. His flight mate opened it and pushed it over. The welcoming scent of fish surrounded him, washing away the softer smells of the preytooths who lived there. Featherstone leaned down to collect one of the smaller roundbacks and took it inside. Although he was used to it now, it bewildered him that preytooths would burn their food before they ate it. Perhaps they thought to bring some small amount of the fire into their bodies this way. Before he'd devoured half the fish on the ground, Featherstone had fed his wood fire and placed his fish above it to burn. He came back outside and watched him eat.

Flying with Featherstone was always the best part of any day. This was almost as good. The scent of food filled his nose and the taste of fish filled his mouth. His belly was happy and his wings were tired from flying. Once the fish were gone, he would be able to lie down and doze, the scent of his flight mate giving him comfort and happiness.

As the last silverside coated his tongue with slime and blood, Featherstone put his hands on his neck and shoulders. "Want on or off," he asked. Two Hearts had no desire to try flying on his own right then. He raised himself to a full standing posture and spread his wings.

Getting his dead tail off took less time and work than getting it on. Those nimble foreclaws did whatever it was that let it fall free. He stepped away from where the pieces had dropped to the ground. Featherstone collected them and took them inside, stumbling only slightly under the load.

The sun was long gone as he prepared for sleep. He charred a spot large enough to lie on. This killed any parasites that might get under his scales and cause weaknesses. It also warmed the ground to make it comfortable. Before he could put his clean spot to use, Featherstone stuck his head out of the woodcave and said, "Want to come inside?"

For much of his life Two Hearts had been uninterested in the woodcaves in which preytooths slept. After having spent time within one, he realized they were just as good as stone caves. The floors prevented parasites from getting under one's scales and the roofs kept the warmth and smells in and the rain and snow out. Now he could appreciate having one to sleep in, but only if the other one was absent. He hesitated.

"It's good," Featherstone said, understanding his reaction. "Sire's not here."

He hadn't been sure. The scent of those that lived within woodcaves tended to linger so powerfully that from without it was often hard to tell if the preytooth that lived in one was actually within. He followed his flight mate into the woodcave.

Featherstone's sire was another puzzle to him. He hadn't actually known that particular preytooth was kin to Featherstone until the moment he'd given thanks to him on the pebbly shore of Fire Nest. With that heavy foreclaw on his brow, he'd declared himself grateful for Two Hearts saving his offspring. He'd been surprised but too hurt and exhausted to react. Of more concern to him was the obvious tension that existed between the two. While he had no difficulty understanding why the sire didn't like being near Two Hearts (the fear smell was faint but always present) he couldn't work out what was wrong between him and Featherstone.

And where was his dam? Was she lost to him, as his own was? Could he help him find her?

There was so much he desired to ask his rider. It was what drove him to improve his dirt signs as often as he could. It warmed his liver greatly that his preytooth worked as hard to learn Kin words, even though he could never speak them.

Featherstone was poking at his burning fish, watching the delicious oils and slime drip into the small fire he'd built up in one end of the pit. It made Two Hearts a little sad to see the tastiness of a roundback ruined that way, but that was how preytooths ate their fish.

He was tempted to offer to burn his fish for him much faster, but he'd learned not to flame within a woodcave. Not even in the fire pit. He'd tried that once, at Featherstone's encouragement. He'd certainly gotten the fire lit, but had also blown ash all over the place. There had been much coughing and yelling that afternoon.

He lay down on the wood floor instead of hanging from the beams. When he was inside Featherstone's woodcave, he preferred to sleep where his flight mate could join him if he so chose. The smell of the sire mixed with the scent of burned roundback and kept him from dozing easily. He watched as his rider finished burning his fish. His preytooth took a few wobbly steps to his side and sat down, leaning against his warm flank. He began pulling flakes of burned fish off the bones and eating them.

His curiosity finally got to him and he leaned his nose closer to the fire-chewed roundback. It smelled... oddly familiar. As though he had eaten burned fish before. Featherstone noticed his sniffing and asked, "Want to try it?"

Deciding he wanted to know how fire-in-fish tasted, he nodded. He gazed with interest as Featherstone pulled another large chunk of flaking flesh from the bones and held it up. Two Hearts opened his mouth and his rider tossed it in.

Instantly he remembered where he'd tasted burned fish before. It had been in the tiny woodcave of the dusty one. The old preytooth female had made a liquid that tasted of fish and not-fish and other things he hadn't been able to understand but had thoroughly enjoyed. The fish-but-not-fish tasted exactly like the burned fish he now crushed against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. The flavors were strangely enticing yet not entirely pleasant. He decided he liked the way she burned fish better.

Thoughts of the dusty one flew up in his mind. She'd spoken to his rider about many things that morning. She'd even spoken to Two Hearts, whispering to him in quiet yet urgent tones, "He is as important to us as he is to you. Please take care of him."

That had been surprising. It was the first time anyone other than Featherstone had truly spoken to him as though he were a preytooth and able to understand their words. He'd wished he could tell her that he had every intention of taking care of his flight mate, at least as well as his flight mate took care of him.

Those thoughts flooded his liver with warmth and he gently nosed Featherstone's ear as that one tossed the last of his fish bones into the fire pit. A quick dart of his tongue over the pliant skin of the jaw and cheek brought forth the humor/happiness sound. One small foreclaw rubbed the fine scales above his nostrils while the other rested on his nearest foreleg.

Something happened. The foreclaw on his leg stopped moving and Featherstone looked down at it. His face changed from pleasure to discomfort and he could smell the barest trace of fear from him. Confused and concerned, he looked down at where the foreclaw lay. He saw nothing unusual.

"Featherstone," he said. "What?"

His preytooth looked up as though startled and the fear scent grew slightly. That put a distinct chill in his liver.

Featherstone withdrew his foreclaw, held it against his own chest. "I... nothing."

The air flooded with scents now, all of them false and confusing. Why would his flight mate ever have reason to feel uncertain of him? Did he not think Two Hearts would notice the scents he gave off?

A new thought sparked in his mind. Did preytooths not use scent to help them understand one another? Those tiny noses had always puzzled him.

Another thought, sparking brighter than the one before. Could preytooths _not_ use scents the way Kin did?

He shook his head slightly, dropping those ideas. There was a more important question in his mind.

"Why do you feel bad?"

As soon as he asked, he knew he'd get no answer. Featherstone had none of those words yet. There were other words they had together, though. Those they had in dirt sign. He reached with a forepaw toward his chest.

And remembered shedding the skins that worked his dead fin. He grunted in annoyance and looked around, spying it in the corner. He went to it, pushed the pile around until the shine of his metal sign stick caught his eye. Working it free, he moved to the center of the woodcave and started making signs on the wood floor.

Again his intentions were grounded. The floor would not mark with the rounded tip of the sign stick. He snarled softly in frustration. How could he use his sign stick here? Outside it was too dark and inside it was too hard. He looked around, seeking any surface that he could mark.

His gaze stopped at the fire pit and he remembered the day of exploding clouds of ash. Ignoring the small wood fire at one end, he reached into the pit and tamped the ashes down. The dusty gray leavings easily took his paw print.

Two Hearts smoothed out a spot to mark in and asked his question, disregarding the few small bones that poked up there and there.

[what wrong - you feel bad]

Featherstone's eyes moved slightly, looking down at Two Hearts' foreleg again. He shook his small head and made helpless noises for a moment. Finally he answered. "I want we had met without..." He pointed, a twitch of his foreclaw. "You know."

This explained nothing to him. He flattened the ashes again. [not know]

The eyes, the expressive eyes that told as much as scent and words, showed pain. The chill in his liver grew.

"I still not like... not like that I hurt you." He pointed again to Two Hearts' foreleg. "I want I hadn't. I want to take it back."

Winter took his innards in its teeth and bit so hard he thought he would break in two. His wings dropped, just dropped and lay like dead things. A gurgling moan worked its way out of his throat.

How could Featherstone, his flight mate, say such a thing?

He picked up the sign stick that had slid from his grasp and wrote over the previous signs without wiping them away.

[you not want Two Hearts]

"What?" The fear and confusion that came from that small body now was like a burning ember in his nostrils. "NO! No, that's not right!" He held up both foreclaws in a fending gesture. "It's... it's the opposite." He pointed again. "I not like I had to hurt you for us to be flight mates."

Two Hearts quickly calmed, letting that reassurance fill his liver with warmth for a moment. It also filled his mind with a new understanding.

They had talked about this before. Forgiveness was an idea Kin understood. Featherstone had asked for it and Two Hearts had been more than willing to give it. But this was more. This was different. It was lodged in some deeper place within his flight mate and harder to get to. Why would his preytooth feel this way? And why was he upset about his foreleg?

They stared at each other, unable to find the words that would bring a clearer understanding. Two Hearts sniffed deeply of the air, searching for some missed clue. He gazed at the small, round eyes that showed misery and guilt. The two of them could speak like no other Kin and preytooth. There were no others to ask for help, for explanations. His own dam was missing and Featherstone had taken the place of his sire. Who else could he ask for wisdom?

Sire! The thought came to him, as sudden and bright-burning as lightning in a storm. It opened his eyes and burned away every bit of chill in him. He had to suppress the impulse to raise his head and send his own blue fire high into the sky in delight.

This was the action of a sire, concerned for its offspring! They were flight mates, but now he saw that Featherstone held Two Hearts closer than that. His preytooth truly saw him as his own kin and felt that irresistible need to protect and never to harm.

He had to think a moment how to explain that he'd come to this new understanding. He patted the ashes flat and drew with slow, deliberate strokes. He knew what he wanted to say, but the limits of their shared words forced him to strip the idea to its bones.

[my hurt hurt you]

"Yes! Yes, your hurts hurt me." Featherstone pointed once again to his foreleg. "I made you scarred forever!"

Those words caused a second flash of understanding. Two Hearts could now see the source of his flight mate's unhappiness. He looked down at his foreleg and saw the long, deep scar that he'd gotten there from being grounded. That's what Featherstone's foreclaws had touched, what his eyes kept seeing. Forgiveness for the past, the actions that had taken his flight from him; these things were not the problem. It was the lingering scent of consequence that pained him, like a wound that would not fully heal, staying sour and raw.

His own fears were gone now, but in their place came new confusion. Why would the signs of old hurts bother his flight mate? Did he see them as a separate thing? Did he not understand what scars meant to Kin?

He needed to explain this to him. He couldn't let his flight mate feel bad for something Two Hearts wanted. He couldn't think of any dirt signs that could carry his idea, but he would try anyway.

[hurt sign not bad - hurt sign show strong]

There was still confusion in Featherstone's eyes. "I don't..."

[want you - want hurt sign]

"What you mean 'hurt sign'? You mean scars?"

"Yes," he answered, nodding.

It wasn't enough. His preytooth still broadcast confusion. He tried a different way.

[you much not like leg] He raised the sign stick from the ashes and carefully tapped his flight mate's dead leg.

"Well, no, I don't hate it. It's just... there. There's nothing I can do about it."

[I much like leg]

"You... what?" He looked down at his dead leg, moved it a bit. The confusion smell grew stronger.

[leg show you much strong - you good strong]

"Uh..."

[all things have teeth - all things fight - all have hurt sign] 'Teeth' was a new dirt sign, one he just made up. It took a moment for Featherstone to understand it.

[much like you - much want you - much want hurt sign] He touched the preytooth's dead leg with the sign stick again. [show we strong - you I all good]

Featherstone looked at the signs made in the gray dust. He gazed up at Two Hearts. The ghost wing couldn't help it. It welled up in him and he spoke, knowing his rider couldn't understand. "You are my flight mate, Featherstone. You are my sky."

His rider grew calm. He looked down at his dead leg, held it up a moment.

"Preytooths see scars the same way. My kin say scars show strength, survival." His little lips curled in that small sign of happiness. "I never thought Kin would see them that way."

He could smell no more fear from Featherstone. [you good now]

Featherstone drew a long breath, let it go gradually. He reached up and laid a gentle foreclaw on his neck where he knew another of his deeper scars ran. He followed that line down and back up, scratched softly. He closed his eyes a moment, then slowly nodded. His eyes opened and he gave his little smile again. "Yes. I'm good now. Thank you."

Two Hearts had one more question.

[you like you hurt sign] He tapped the leg once more.

The smile went away. A small frown took its place.

"I don't..." He smelled faintly of fear again, of falseness. He looked up again, at the scar on his Kin's neck. Their eyes met, and the fear smell faded once more.

"No, I don't really like it. But it's mine. A part of who I am. It tells my story. It... shows my strength."

Immensely pleased, the ghost wing crooned happily and drew once more among the ashes. [you much strong - you good strong] He turned to Featherstone and nosed him in the chest. Small foreclaws scratched his eye ridges. [you no more feel bad for hurt sign]

Another deep breath, to push out the last of the bad feelings. He curled his lips in happiness. "If you feel good about your scars, then I don't feel bad about them."

"Yes yes yes." He nodded energetically, satisfied to hear the humor/happiness sound again. He lay down where he was and leaned his neck out to catch his rider's coverings in his teeth. Pulling slightly, his flight mate understood and sat down once more next to him. He curled tail and wing around the small body, intent on keeping the little preytooth close as he slept.

As he began to doze, one last thought sparked in his mind. If Featherstone could be as his sire, perhaps he could be as Featherstone's dam.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**A/N** Well, I've finally gone and done it. I climbed into the big guy's head and drove him around for a while. Hopefully I haven't wrecked him.

You may notice a difference in some of the speech patterns for Hiccup when heard from Toothless' point of view. I figure that the Fury would have come to understand much of the Norse that was spoken by the Vikings while he was eavesdropping on them, but that doesn't mean he'd have a perfect understanding of all the words or a full grasp of how the grammar works. And of course when he speaks to Hiccup, that one hears sounds which he interprets as his own understanding of what's being spoken.

Thus when Toothless speaks his name for Hiccup, he says 'Featherstone' but Hiccup knows what the sound means and hears it as his name, 'Hiccup,' In this way they speak the same language, but not really.

There are a few more chapters to go to finish the 2nd act in this story, then it's really going to get interesting.


	17. Living with Swords

.

Broken

Chapter 17: Living with Swords

Valhalla is an enormous, majestic hall where Odin feasts with the slain warriors of his choosing. It resides in Asgard, shining and golden, rising with raw splendor to offer food, drink and games worthy of the greatest fighters ever known. The rafters are the shafts of spears, the roof thatched with shields. Within, the Valkyries that bore the warriors there serve mead and sing of their exploits. All true Vikings intended to make their way to that special place reserved for the fiercest warriors.

It wasn't hard to imagine standing before Glasir, the golden tree that spread its mighty limbs before the great hall, looking at the immense doors of that revered place. It wasn't hard to imagine being called forth by Odin to step inside and join the feasting and games. It wasn't hard to imagine seeing the pride on his father's face when his only child joined him at the tables of the gods.

It wasn't hard because he'd imagined it nearly every day of his adult life. He could see it all as plain as the rough timber roof over his head or the carved wooden bed beneath him. And after this morning he would be one large step closer to his ultimate goal. By the end of the day he would either be riding his dragon and learning how to fight from its back or he would be-

No, best not to think that way. He couldn't let his doubts prevent him from taking this all-important step. He would succeed. He would soar through the skies on Grimjaws' back by nightfall.

Kettlecrack rolled onto his side, still hesitant to climb out of bed. He could see daylight sneaking under the door of his small house. Soon it would be streaming in the window, displaying his meager possessions and scant furnishings. He needed to get up, eat something. Prepare for the day. With a sigh he swung his legs over the edge of his bed. No Viking, no matter how fierce and powerful, could conquer his enemies from beneath his blankets.

He threw together a quick breakfast of biscuits and ale. The biscuits were old and he had to tear off the moldy spots, but there were enough of them to ease his hunger. As he ate, he kept glancing at the newest item in his house. It represented a significant purchase since he had little money and had never been good at growing food or making things to trade. As it was, he owed Gobber a good bit for the leather and the work the smith had put into creating it.

His next challenge would be saddling his dragon. Grimjaws had gotten used to his presence, was letting his rider touch him most anywhere he needed to. Except for his wings, for some reason. His first idea had been simply to use some rope, lashed around the beast's neck. Spitelout's boy had used nothing more on his first ride and been successful.

The lad was also younger and considerably smaller. For Snotlout to sit far up on a Nightmare's sinuous neck and hold onto one of the pairs of horns for support had proved an easy task for both the boy and the dragon. For Kettlecrack, a large boned, meaty adult it was simply not possible. Especially with Grimjaws' smaller body. He had quickly realized the only way the dragon could support him was for him to sit at the base of the neck between the shoulders.

Unfortunately there was little to hold onto there. Unless he wanted to lean forward and just grab onto the dragon's neck with his arms and legs he knew he would need a saddle designed to sit at the juncture of the Nightmare's neck and shoulders. Gobber had been willing to make one for him, though he'd insisted Stoick's boy was better at designing them. While he had nothing against the young Haddock he wasn't entirely comfortable talking to him. Especially about dragons. Measurements had been taken, the saddle was made and now he faced the prospect of getting a newly tamed dragon to accept it.

He'd once thought taming a dragon would be the hardest part of his new plans. It had certainly seemed that way when no dragon would come near him for months. Everything had depended on it, and his failure in that task had been utterly complete.

Finally, Grimjaws had found him. His smaller size notwithstanding, he was everything Kettlecrack could want. But how would the beast react when he tried to cinch a saddle to his lower neck? Would he accept it as those few dragons kept in the village had? Or would he fight against it?

If the Nightmare wouldn't allow the saddle things could go very badly, very quickly.

Kettlecrack knew he had a temper, and he knew he had to be careful about letting it get away from him. Specifically, he had to keep his temper in check when dealing with animals. When the very first sheep he ever tried to shear kicked him in fright, he'd thoughtlessly punched it in the back of the head. Moments later he was picking himself up off the ground, dazed and bleeding, his father standing over him like a gathering storm. He'd been knocked nearly senseless, but the sheep had a broken neck and wound up in the stew pot.

His father's advice to him had been simple: "If yer goin' ta work with sheep, ya got ta be smarter than they are ya bloody lummox!"

From that moment on, he'd been extra cautious about letting his temper get away from him around mindless animals. He knew dealing with dragons would be even harder. If Grimjaws did something wrong or got upset he was going to have to be careful how he dealt with it. The Nightmare was still a powerful creature capable of biting his head off or burning him to a crisp. Punching it in the snout for bad behavior would not get him what he wanted.

He could delay no longer. The sun was up and he thought he could hear the creaking of the roof beams that told him his dragon was sleeping on top of the house as he sometimes did. He grabbed the saddle and headed outside.

The cool spring air splashed across his face, invigorating him. He drew a deep breath that was scented with equal parts of salt and greenery. The sun's light came unfiltered from a cloudless sky and made the world seem sharper than usual. It was a perfect morning for flying. As he exhaled gustily he heard a larger set of lungs behind and above him working noisily. A warm, slightly sulfurous breath stirred the hair on the back of his neck. He grinned as he turned around.

Kettlecrack called his dragon down and set about his task.

It was a most promising start. Following the advice Gobber'd given him, he introduced the saddle to Grimjaws, laying it on the ground for him to sniff and examine. Then he held it up and rubbed it against the scaly neck and shoulders, going slow and not pressing the issue when the Nightmare backed up a bit.

With what Kettlecrack considered an amazing amount of patience, he slowly, gradually got the dragon to accept the presence of the saddle across the base of his neck. His excitement grew with each moment as he brought the three things he needed together: the dragon, the saddle and himself. It took a few tries but he eventually got the straps tightened the way Gobber had shown him. To his surprise, Grimjaws seemed to have no objections to the saddle or the straps needed to keep it in place. He didn't bite or fight or try to tear it off.

Then came the real moment of truth. Or so he thought.

Again, Gobber's advice had been of great help. He let the beast get used to the saddle first. He fed him some fat salmon he'd gotten just for this reason. He rubbed the scaly jowls and listened to the contented thrum. Finally he moved close to the saddle and grabbed its short leather horn. He looked to his left and found that long neck curled around so the Nightmare could watch. Nothing seemed amiss.

Yet Kettlecrack hesitated. Now that he was about to do it, he felt there was just something incredibly... disturbing about climbing onto what he had once considered nothing more than a murderous beast. But others had done it. Children had done it! He would do it. He tightened his grip on the horn and tensed his arms.

And still he stood there. Something deep within him didn't fully trust the animal. To allow it to carry him high up into the sky where it might easily shake him off and watch him plummet to his death was daunting, to say the least. Though, in all fairness, he hadn't heard of anyone being thrown off a dragon.

But what if he was the first?

No. The saddle had sturdy hand holds and a large horn he could grip. It had those foot things, too. Stirrups, someone had called them. He would be safe. And if Grimjaws had desired to kill him, it would most likely have happened before now. He tensed his arms again and raised himself up.

He felt so proud. He'd gotten himself perched snugly onto the saddle of his own dragon. The creature continued to stare at him, his long neck curved back on itself. The dragon seemed content, and Kettlecrack felt sure his plans were meant to be fulfilled. "All right, let's go," he told his mount. He could barely contain his excitement.

So began the nightmare on his Nightmare.

The first tentative steps gave them both a few moments to get their balance worked out. Each stride felt like an attempt to throw him off, despite the obvious fact that Grimjaws was doing no such thing. Kettlecrack was simply not used to dealing with movement initiated by another living thing. He shifted to keep himself centered and gripped the leather-wrapped handholds tighter. Old instincts, born of wild and dangerous seas, came into play and quickly helped him cope. Once he saw the similarities between the dragon's stride and a small boat cresting the waves, he was able to adjust with some speed.

Lucky for him.

The dragon crouched and launched himself with an immensely powerful stroke of his red and black wings. As he did, his neck arched up as his wings came down. The force of the sudden upward movement pitched Kettlecrack forward into the arching neck. There was a jarring impact that rattled his brains and sent jagged knives of pain into his face.

He managed to keep his wits enough to remember he was on the back of a flying dragon. With that in mind, he let go with only one hand to test the damage. His hand came away wet with blood and he counted himself lucky he hadn't lost any teeth. He'd actually been hit worse in the face, but that stroke had been mostly on one cheek, and that from a metal ladle brandished by his own mother.

At that point the painful part of his first flying lesson was over and the terrifying part began immediately. He looked down.

Like some of the other villagers he'd once laughed at, he hadn't given any real thought to the practicality of flying on the back of a dragon. He simply thought of it as the right of the Viking that had tamed the dragon, and a fitting and intimidating way to approach an enemy on the ground.

What he hadn't expected was the horrifying 'axe in the gut' feeling he got when he realized how far up he was. And he was still rising. It had only taken a few seconds to reach a height that would kill him in a fall. And still they climbed.

The pain in his broken nose and split lips was immediately forgotten as he leaned forward and clutched at Grimjaws' neck with arms and legs as tightly as he possibly could. He was surprised (much, much later when he was able to think straight again) that he didn't cut off the Nightmare's air or blood with his panicked grip. He didn't remember the hand holds, he didn't think of the sturdy horn except as an additional pain in his chest where it pressed dully into his bulk.

The ground continued to fall away beneath them and with each thrust of the dragon's wings he felt more certain he was going to die that morning. The sight of a seabird soaring _beneath_ them only made it worse. His chest tightened until he felt like he couldn't breathe. He tried to order the dragon back to the ground and produced only a pathetic whimper of sound. He leaned forward, trying to give the animal the idea he wanted to go back down and felt his body start to slide over to the right. A close-mouthed scream and a further tightening of his grip was all he accomplished.

He was finally able to convince Grimjaws to head back down, but not by any means he would relate to anyone who might ask. Kettlecrack later supposed the dragon had only wanted to wash the vomit off his neck.

It wasn't until much later that evening that he realized how lucky he'd really been, all in all. Grimjaws had settled back down right next to his house, saving him an embarrassing and painful walk through the village. He'd managed to slide off the dragon's neck to the ground without disturbing his injuries. With a soft grunt, he'd collapsed to the ground, lying on his back. None of his neighbors had been out to see him, bloodied and shaken, his face as pale as new snow and his tri-braided beard marked with bright red spatters.

He was only vaguely aware of Grimjaws' sniffing at him. He heard a quiet growl and started violently when a soft, hot tongue slid across his nose. The pain was so intense he could only thrash his arms in self defense. The Nightmare must have taken the hint. There was a brief gust of wind and the sound of wings catching the air and he was alone once again.

Alone and on his back, staring at a cloudless sky he had been part of only moments ago. His nose hurt, his lips hurt, his head was throbbing and his gut still wanted to heave up. His fingers started to cramp and it was only then he realized he had gripped the thick grass growing beside his house with all his strength to make sure he stayed down on the ground.

Where he was safe.

He stared upward, an unaccustomed feeling building within him. He hadn't realized it before now. The sky was huge. It could hold all the dragons in the world and still have room.

Berk was small, compared to that enormous blue expanse. Tiny.

Berk was under that sky, buried under it, smothered and crushed, helpless.

Kettlecrack closed his eyes, shutting out that terrifying place where storms held court and snow was birthed and the winds ruled with deceptive calm and raging power. He let the dark wash over him, listened to the sounds around him. He heard nearby birds and distant crashing waves, shouts from the harbor and a single woman's voice singing.

He was no stranger to anger. It would rise up in him, fierce and terrible when things went wrong for him. He knew what could draw the wrath from his heart and when to let it take control. But now he felt anger unlike any other he'd ever known.

In a single morning he'd gone from success to terror to humiliation to misery, and now the fury boiled up hotter than the fire any dragon ever loosed upon the world.

Valhalla had just been snatched from him by the uncaring sky. He'd breached it on the back of a beast willing to do his bidding and been rejected as utterly unworthy. His plans, his dreams, everything he wanted had just been cast down and destroyed in a few moments. His father's pride was now out of reach. Odin's great hall may as well reside in that unforgiving air just over his head. He would never get there.

And that was the purest fuel for his rage. The injustice of it sank in, like a blade in his chest. He drew deep, gasping breaths; his arms tensed and the grass pulled free of the ground. His back bowed and he sat up, a red tinge to his vision. He growled, deep as any bear and offering nothing but pain for his enemies.

But who was his enemy?

Everything from the top of his helmet up.

He looked up, caught sight of the nearby trees; tall and stately and able to reach heights denied him.

He stood, focused entirely on the nearest pine. He walked toward it, a promise of destruction in his eyes. He passed within arm's length of the firewood piled outside his small home. Without a thought he picked up a piece and hurled it at the pine. His throw missed, the firewood flew well beyond his target and bounced to a halt among the undergrowth. The next piece hit with a resounding thunk. So did the next.

Soon the entire pile was gone. He was then reduced to picking up rocks and heaving them. By then, most of the bark had already been torn from the lowest portion of his target's trunk. It would surely die over the next year or so.

It meant nothing. By then the only thing that mattered was the searing ache in his arms and back, the intense throbbing pain in his nose and lips and the exhaustion that had him lying once more on the ground, looking up at his unreachable enemy. It was all useless. He felt vaguely empty inside. He closed his eyes and sank away.

* * *

The weapon came whistling down at his head, slicing through the air with the same ferocity its owner intended to apply to him. If the speed and power of the stroke were in doubt, surely the fearsome grimace and the blood curdling roar that accompanied them spoke of their authenticity. It was meant to be a killing swing and for a crystallized instant he wondered what it would feel like to be cleaved so thoroughly.

Such momentary wanderings evaporated instantly as the sword hurtling toward him met his own weapon, raised with both hands in defense. The sound of the impact crashed upon his ears the same instant the shockingly painful bite of his own weapon's handle stung his hands. It took every scrap of discipline he had not to drop the blade and nurse the injury. It also took every drop of courage he could squeeze from his heart to keep the sword raised to block the next swing.

The second impact hit just as hard as the first. The pain seemed to spike well past his wrists this time, numbing his hands to a frightening degree. With a fearful grunt he tightened his grip and held up the sword, as though placating an angry god. A third time the weapons met and this time the power behind his opponent's blade told the tale. Despite the fact he didn't lose his sword, despite the fact he still held it in front of him, he couldn't deny he was lost. His guard dropped, his sword's tip planted firmly in the ground where it had been driven. He looked up at the length of steel that was bearing down on him with unbelievable speed.

It was over for him.

When Snotlout's blunted sword came to a snapping halt just short of his neck, Jaspin gasped. He hadn't been sure, really sure that the older boy wouldn't slam his practice weapon into his defenseless body just to prove a point. It was plain to him that his own fighting skills were painfully weak compared to his training partner's. But being matched with a larger, older, stronger and more knowledgeable opponent could hardly be considered a reasonable test.

Of course, that was the whole point, he was sure. When the enemy attacked, you defended. When you attacked, he defended. The better fighter won, regardless of how or why. 'Reasonable' had nothing to do with it.

"Oy." Mord stepped closer to Jaspin, pushing the shaft of Snotlout's sword away from his neck. "What are ya doin'?"

Jaspin took a deep breath to calm his nerves. "He's too strong. I couldn't stand up to him."

Mord glanced at the older boy, then back at Jaspin. A feral grin lifted his lips. "Sure ya can." He spoke softly and with great confidence. For a moment it didn't register that the weapon master had declared him capable of withstanding Snotlout's furious attack.

"What? How?"

The grizzled hair that poked out from his horned helm was bejeweled with droplets from the light rain that had been falling all afternoon. Mord's leather vest covered a simple wool tunic, both dyed a deep black and thoroughly dampened. He pointed to Snotlout with a sword hand that was missing its last finger. "Look at 'im. Bloody fool's choppin' firewood." He snapped his head around to address the warrior woodsman. "And what did I tell you about that, eh?"

Snotlout just shrugged.

Mord turned back to Jaspin, his face close enough to count the scars across his forehead and down his left cheek to his chin. One nostril had a strange, jagged notch in it. "You think you really need to stop his blade? You should take that blow into your hands, eh? Your wrists, your arms? Turn 'em to water, they will. No good." He grinned again. "Watch."

The older man jumped up and bounced lightly on his feet until he was standing before Jaspin's partner. He waved his own sword in invitation. "Gimme a chop, wood boy! Go slow so's he can see."

Jaspin watched as the two went through the demonstration. Snotlout once again raised his weapon high over his head and slowly brought it down. It seemed like such a devastating strike, especially after having been on the receiving end of several of them. But instead of standing away from the boy and cross blocking with his own sword, Mord stood close and held his blade up at eye level. As Snotlout's blade slowly came down, Mord raised the hilt of his sword while keeping the tip at the same height. Instead of coming down squarely on the opposing blade, Snotlout's sword now deflected off to the left. This left the boy with his arms extended, his blade down low and no good way to defend himself.

Mord looked aside at Jaspin. "This is jus' the start. Step up, like this, and make him pay for mistakin' his sword for an axe!" He took a short step forward and swung the elbow of his sword arm slowly into Snotlout's face. Rattled skull at the least, broken jaw at the worst, he realized. Mord then finished his move by pushing away from the older boy with his sword arm and drawing its rounded edge across his opponent's chest as he withdrew.

Going slow, with everything explained and all the moves memorized, it seemed quite simple to Jaspin. But it changed drastically when the excitement of a sparring match got underway. The ring of steel, the shouts and cries of warriors practicing their deadly art; it made his heart run away with him and his breath come up short. His mind would lose its focus and he would become distracted or overwrought. Days ago, when they were still using wooden practice swords, Snotlout had come at him hard, attacking him without mercy and leaving several vicious bruises before he backed off. Jaspin had been plainly overwhelmed and despaired of ever becoming a real warrior.

Mord, who had looked on with mild interest, simply said, "Eh, he's just giving you the thrashing I gave him when I first set a stick in his hand. He still can't give me a thrashing in return, so he gives it to you instead." The comment had obviously irritated the older boy, but he'd merely retorted, "One day, old man. One day."

"I don't doubt it." Mord had laid a powerful hand on his shoulder. "But not before I've been laid on my funeral pyre!" He'd laughed, a raucous guffaw interspersed with snorts and smacked the Jorgenson boy on the back. Snotlout had actually stumbled a bit from the blow.

Now, with a heavier steel sword in his hand, it was harder to imagine being able to learn to use it properly with the necessary speed and force to put up a good fight. He didn't want to complain or seem weak, but he had serious doubts. He stared at his blade's blunted edge for a long moment before asking, "How do you know what to do so fast? How can you tell what will work and what won't?"

"Practice, of course!" their instructor bellowed cheerfully and immediately spun a brutal slash at Snotlout. Taken somewhat by surprise, Jaspin's training partner barely got his own blade up in time. Mord stepped back, nodding slightly. "Better, but still pathetically slow. Freygerd could have your ears off as slow as you move." When the older boy's face darkened, Mord held up his free hand. "Later. Give Jaspin a chance to learn to block your firewood chop. Go slow to start."

So they spent some small time letting Jaspin learn to spot and block a powerful overhead attack. They started slow at first, letting him get used to how his sword needed to move and where he needed to hold it. They got faster as he figured out how to get his weapon where it would do the most good.

"At's good. Now, I want ya to do your basic drills again, and this time work that block and slash in where ya can. Snot, give him a mix of random attacks. Pretend you're berserkin'."

And so the lesson went until most of the afternoon had been used up. Mord finally called an end to it by announcing their skills had progressed from awful to merely terrible. He walked off toward the great hall for some supper and a mug. By then the light rain had eased to a mere mist that drifted visibly in the gentle breeze.

* * *

He'd slept without meaning to. The sun was well past noon when a rushing of wind and an earthy collision woke him. A familiar growl got his eyes open.

Grimjaws crouched nearby, staring at him. The beast had returned. Even after being rebuffed for his concern, he'd come back. His sleep fogged mind grabbed hold of that and looked closely at it. There was something very important in that fact. He brought himself upright, sitting in the grass with his hands scored and his face still thumping in rhythmic pain with each beat of his heart.

His dragon had come back. It sat now, staring at him. He couldn't quite tell what mood the creature was in, but it seemed willing to wait for him to react. He raised a hand, palm up, held it out towards the beast. The great neck stretched out, the long oval nostrils widened as it sniffed the air. Grimjaws rose and moved close enough to sniff his open hand directly. He stroked the underside of the scaly jaw, kept his hand there as the nose got closer to his face and sniffed at the dried blood. It did not lick him this time.

Who'd have believed riding a dragon could be so hard?

It had never occurred to him. No one had warned him. Of course he hadn't talked to anyone about how one was supposed to ride a dragon. He'd assumed he would sit on the saddle and let the beast do the work. That had seemed only fitting to him. And now he was paying for that assumption.

The nose had been the worst part. He'd never had it broken before. He ran his tongue over the swollen edges of his lips, grunting at the sharp, stinging pain. Grimjaws grunted softly in response, surprising him.

The two simply stared at each other for a time. Kettlecrack wondered briefly at the feeling of calm his dragon brought him. He'd figured dragons to be the new weapons, to be the bearers of power and victory, not comfort. This aspect was not one he'd ever figured to see, let alone desire.

"You've chosen a fool, Grim."

The words had come unbidden, without thought or direction. He almost felt like they'd come from the dragon itself. And in that state of mind he recognized the words for what they were.

Surrender.

He'd been beaten. His goal had been proven unreachable, his desires unworthy. The means he'd chosen to reach Valhalla, the very creature before him, had been the wrong choice. He couldn't ride it. He couldn't sweep over a neighboring tribe's houses and rain fire and fear onto their heads. His chosen battle had been lost before it had begun.

The Monstrous Nightmare's head lifted then and for an instant he thought the dragon was going to leave him. No less than he deserved, perhaps, but it sent a cold shock through him all the same. But the head shook, the neck shivered. The wide chest heaved and the winged forelimbs pushed him further upright. Kettlecrack watched in silent confusion as the neck distorted, bulged and squeezed. The huge maw full of lethal teeth opened wide and pitched forward to deposit the back half of a good sized salmon into his lap.

He stared at it, perplexed. What did it mean? Was the dragon sick? Was it mockery of what Kettlecrack had done on the dragon's neck?

Looking up at that long head, those large eyes, he saw nothing hurtful or angry, nor any sign of sickness. If anything the beast looked... hopeful. He gazed thoughtfully at the partial fish, well coated in digestive slime.

Food, from Grimjaws' own stomach. A fish hunted down in the deep water, caught and brought back to him. Given up for Kettlecrack's nourishment.

The dragon was trying to help him. It came clear in a flash. Grimjaws wanted him to know they were still dragon and rider, Nightmare and Viking. No matter the failures or the injuries, regardless of the fears or the lost battles. The beast was declaring himself Kettlecrack's. They would remain joined.

Was it faith? Affection? Some simpler need?

Did it matter?

Whatever had happened, the dragon remained a dragon. That hadn't changed. No part of Grimjaws or his world had changed. Only Kettlecrack's had.

Or had it?

A new sensation came to him. It filtered in from the edges, creeping along his limbs and setting his gut to tingling.

He'd had it in his mind only moments ago: Nightmare and Viking. He was a Viking.

He stared at Grimjaws, starting to understand.

Vikings didn't surrender. They might be defeated, they might be torn apart or burnt to a cinder or dropped from a mountaintop to explode upon the rocks, but by Odin they never surrendered.

They conquered. They went to battle and made their enemies pay. They rolled over the land and crushed those who opposed them and took what they wanted and left what they didn't. They brought fear and swords and death. The enemy submitted or fought. If they fought, they died.

And if the Vikings died, they went to Valhalla.

He stood, clutching the partial fish. There was no question now. He'd met a new enemy and been tested. He'd almost failed, but Grimjaws had given him the strength he needed to meet it. This was how he would enter that glorious hall; with the wailing of his conquered enemies in his ears and a belly full of conquered fears. Vikings conquered.

And Kettlecrack was a Viking.

He bit deep of the salmon. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

* * *

Exhausted, Jaspin sat down where he was. He'd driven the point of his practice sword into the soft ground and lay back on the thick grass next to it. His dreams of becoming a warrior were coming true, but he'd had no idea how much sweat and pain would be involved.

He heard quiet footsteps as Snotlout approached. The son of Spitelout stood over him, a look that was somewhere between disdain and grudging respect on his face. Their eyes met briefly, but neither had anything to say at that moment.

Jaspin's attention was drawn away by a quiet trilling from across the practice field. He turned his head and looked at Bitequick and Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare, Asgeirr. The two dragons were sitting close together, their snouts nearly touching. He'd seen them acting like that before and wondered about it.

Asgeirr was a healthy male, but he had no idea if that was the reason for Bitequick's interest in him of late. He also had no idea if dragons mated outside their species. He'd never heard of mixed breed dragons and there was nothing about such creatures in the old dragon manual. Perhaps he could ask Hiccup about it.

He didn't know if he should be worried about how much Quick liked the Nightmare. Considering the large male belonged to his training partner, he supposed it might be perfectly normal. But his Nadder's behavior lately had been... slightly off.

It was nothing upsetting or dangerous, just some minor changes in her manners and a tendency to disappear for a day or so. Still, it seemed to him that her interest in Asgeirr wasn't quite... appropriate. He wasn't sure if it was because of the Nightmare's reputation for aggressiveness or his rider's. Or maybe some other reason he couldn't name.

Snotlout drew his mind off that dilemma by spearing his own blade into the ground between the younger boy's ankles. "You did all right. For your size and age, you did all right."

Jaspin wasn't used to compliments of any kind from Snotlout. He thought about it a moment before he replied with a simple, "I suppose."

"You just gotta be more serious, is all. You're not putting any power into it."

The younger boy frowned. "It's just practice. I'm still learning how to hold the thing."

"No!" Snot took a step forward, one hand still on the handle of his grounded blade. "A sword is for killing. Every time you swing it, you should be trying to kill someone."

That didn't ring true to Jaspin's ears. "Even when your sword's made of wood?"

"_Especially_ when it's made of wood." He pulled his practice sword from the ground and held the dirt-smeared tip in Jaspin's face. "That keeps you from thinking of it as a toy."

A moment passed in silence as that was digested.

"Mord never said anything about that."

Snotlout blinked lazily, almost like a sleepy dragon. "Mord's job it to teach you how." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "My job's to teach you why."

That only confused him. "Why," he said quizzically. "What do you mean 'why?'"

The older boy's voice deepened slightly, his expression becoming as serious as he'd ever seen it. "Why hold a sword?"

That seemed a silly question. "To fight."

The chin, lately dusted with a few scraggly dark hairs, lifted. "Why fight?"

He had to think about that one, but the answer came to him before long. "Because we're Vikings."

The point of Snot's sword lowered to his chest, pressed against his sternum. "And how do Vikings fight?"

Jaspin had no doubts about that answer. "Fiercely!"

Snotlout leaned forward and pressed with his sword point until Jaspin felt it dig into his skin and push his back to the ground. "FIERCELY!" The open aggression on his face, the challenge thundering in his voice drove him to motion. He kicked up with one leg to strike at his partner's sword hand and batted at the tip still pressed into this chest. Snot danced back a step and shouted, "Grab your sword!" Amazingly, Jaspin's hand had already shot out, seeking its grip an instant before the command had come.

He knew as he leveled his weapon and settled into his stance that Snotlout had not pressed his own attack during those brief seconds. So when the command, "Attack me!" came, he knew what he was supposed to do. He used the basic swing they'd just practiced, which was deflected with pitiful ease. Several more times he tried, but each attempt failed.

"Hit me!" he taunted. Jaspin tried another basic swing, got nowhere. What was the point of this?

"Kill me!" Snotlout roared. This time he just swung, aiming for nothing more than the middle of that larger body. That body skipped back a half step, easily avoiding the blow.

"HATE ME!" he shrieked. But that confused Jaspin. He actually hesitated before swinging, and he could tell before the strike was defeated that it was useless. He stepped back, uncertain. Snotlout saw, and real anger seemed to fill his eyes.

The commotion had caught the attention of the two dragons lounging nearby. They heard a surprised chirrup from the Nadder. Snotlout glanced at them a moment, then turned back. The anger took on a degree of cruelty. "Jaspin, if you don't cut me down, I'm gonna kill your dragon."

A hand made of solid ice squeezed Jaspin's heart and filled his guts with snow. His eyes went large and his breath locked up in his throat.

Before either of them knew what he intended the smaller boy heaved his sword at his partner's face, letting the blade fly out of his hand like a spear launched underhand. The shock of seeing the point of the sword coming at him like that caused Snotlout to hesitate just as Jaspin had a moment ago. Instead of deflecting the projectile with his own weapon, he instinctively grabbed it with his free hand.

And so they found themselves, some distance apart; Snotlout standing with Jaspin's blunted steel blade caught in his hand and its point close enough to his nose he could smell the dirt still lodged on its tip. He lowered the weapon, still holding it by the blade. "Interesting," he mused. "If it had been sharp, it would have gone through my fingers and hit my face."

Jaspin stood, breathing heavily after the sudden spurt of activity and somewhat stunned by what had just happened.

"But don't ever do that again. Never let your sword out of your hand, even if you're sure it's the last stoke you need to make."

Jaspin only nodded.

Snotlout tossed the sword back to him. "From now on you take this seriously. If you swing that thing, you swing it to protect her." He pointed over his shoulder at Bitequick. "If that's what it takes for you to give a killing blow every time, use it."

Jaspin nodded again, understanding what his partner was telling him.

"And another thing. Keep that with you at all times from now on. You need to always be ready. I'm going to be coming after you when you don't expect it." That got a confused frown. "I'm serious. You eat with it next to you. You make water with it next to you. You sleep with it next to your bed. That sword-" he pointed to it "- is all that's going to keep me from hurting her." A twitch of his head toward the dragons. "Got it?"

"Yes." Jaspin was not certain how he felt about this new method of training, but he couldn't deny he felt an undercurrent of excitement about it. With Snotlout's help, he might very well become the warrior he'd always wanted to be.

He'd become a true Viking.

* * *

Kettlecrack really didn't want to go to Fishlegs for a wooden practice sword. He didn't want the boy asking questions about why an adult in the village would want a fake sword when he had a real one. More specifically, he didn't want to risk having the oversized teen find out about his plans prematurely.

The Ingerman's son was an excellent cooper and had an undeniable skill for making well balanced wooden practice blades for kids to use. Most children prized his ash and oak swords as much as the adults did Gobber's weapons. His own wooden sword had been made by the elder Ingerman and had most likely burned up in a one of the many dragon attacks since his childhood. Once he'd been given a short sword for village defense he'd never looked for his practice weapon again.

But now he had real need of one. The problem was it wasn't really for him. It was for his dragon.

He didn't believe for a minute that Grimjaws wouldn't react to the approach of an armed Viking, regardless of how well the two had been getting along. He felt certain his training would go much smoother if he could introduce the ideas of combat against other Vikings with weapons that could do the Nightmare no real harm. Once the ideas had taken and were well established, then he could move on to getting his dragon to accept the presence of a real blade in his hands.

One problem at a time.

He sat in the open doorway of his house, breakfasting on the remains of a leg of mutton he'd had for his supper the night before. As he chewed the cold, greasy meat and took an occasional drink of water, he thought about how he was going to get a practice sword without telling the whole village his plans.

He knew Fishlegs made them out of the barrel staves he dried for his work. It wouldn't take much to wander by and snatch one. But he might be caught. It would be a small matter, certainly, but he still didn't want the attention.

The youngsters of Berk often left their practice swords lying about as children will. But since Stoick had ordered all those of age for dragon training to start battle training, unclaimed oak swords were incredibly scarce. Mord had become far more serious about his students caring for their weapons, even the ones termites could threaten.

Perhaps he could make his own. It didn't have to be well made or well balanced. It was only a temporary need it would fill. In fact, now that he thought of it, it didn't need to look like a sword at all. All he really needed was a sapling of appropriate length and size whittled down to a reasonable point. That should be enough to let Grimjaws understand what he was trying to do.

Of course, the sword was just the first problem. He needed more than just a weapon with which to train. He also needed a target. Something he could make look like a Viking. Something at which he could swing his pointy wooden stick. Something the dragon would be willing to set afire.

He remembered Mord hanging large woven baskets weighted with rocks from tree limbs. They would be set to swinging and the younger trainees could smack them with their false swords all they wanted. The best place to get one of those baskets was down at the docks. He just hoped Grimjaws didn't think the fish smell that came from his practice target meant it was to be eaten.

The docks were deserted, all the available ships having left to find whatever they could catch. The morning sun was just bringing its lowest edge off the eastern waters and the seabirds were calling to each other. A fair wind was pushing the waters almost to the point of whitecaps. It looked to be a mild, comfortable day.

Kettlecrack spotted the baskets left from the previous day's fishing and headed out onto the docks to look them over. He was nearly upon them when he realized the docks weren't truly deserted after all. A small, fair haired head rose up from among the baskets. He stopped dead in his tracks, wondering what the young - girl, he realized - was doing. It took him a moment to recognize her as Herdis, Bram Blacktongue's daughter.

"Morning," he called softly, so as to avoid startling her. She turned toward him a moment and answered just as quietly. There was an awkward moment when she stared at his swollen nose and lips. Then she turned back to the basket she had open. She was reaching inside and pulling something out. The long, thin body was black and yellow and easy to identify.

"Dotta making eel pie today?" he asked.

"No," she answered, shaking her head. "These fish are for Bitterbug. I'm just getting the eels out."

He then realized she had pulled several of the creatures out and laid them on the dock. A puzzled look crossed his bristly face. "Why?"

"Grumblemud said Hiccup told him dragons don't like eels. Can't stand 'em, he said."

He looked down at the few eels lying on the dock. He stared for several moments as an idea took hold. A smile slowly formed under his tri-braided beard. "Are you going to take these?"

Herdis frowned. "No. I like eels but mum always cooks 'em to mush."

With a widening grin, Kettlecrack chose a good sized empty basket and dumped the rejected eels into it. He said farewell to the young woman and headed back to his house.

Once he had his practice target set up he would go into the woods and find a sapling the size he needed. A little whittling would give him enough of a shaft to start work on his plans for Grimjaws. He supposed once he got the dragon acclimated to real swords he would have to carry one all the time. He didn't know how good a dragon's memory was. Once the Nightmare was trained to fly at his command while he used his sword on the target he'd set up, he didn't need the creature getting spooked later on if he suddenly approached with a blade in hand.

With a basket of eels over his shoulder and an unaccustomed feeling of having been clever, he made his way home to put his plans back into motion.

It was going to be a glorious day.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN **I apologize for how long this took to finish. I realized I needed to make some fairly important changes with a few of the characters and that took some time. I also had other projects going on that took up my time as well. The next two chapters are fairly well plotted out and should go much quicker. Then we'll start the third and final act.


	18. Bittersweet

Broken

Chapter 18: Bittersweet

Tonna rubbed against the dock almost affectionately, despite the fishing voyage having been a very short one. Stoick supposed it was only his imagination that had Eyvind's ship acting pleased to be home once again. He would have preferred to stay out a few more days, but they'd caught enough to nearly fill the deck and the turning weather had encouraged a swift return.

The sun was just about to touch the western waters. The clouds in that direction held so many vivid colors that even a distracted chief had to stop for a moment and admire the scene. When a lean arm and weathered hand came into his view, he grinned up at Hogknee. Grasping the offered hand he lurched up onto the dock and turned to assist the next man up the plank. After Grumblemud had gained the dock Stoick turned back to the sunset once more.

Even a single day out to sea had helped him get his thoughts calm. He felt he was once again ready to tackle the problems Berk had waiting for him. He clapped Hogknee on the shoulder as he strode away, leaving the younger man to gaze upon the same spectacle.

He was tired, he was hungry and he was more than ready for a mug or two before he headed for his bed. But there were things that wanted doing first. He climbed the stairs up the side of the cliff to the village proper and to his brother's house. As he came to the top of the staircase and turned left he could see Spitelout. He was sitting on his front steps carving a small animal out of a piece of wood.

Stoick came to stand before the man, his hand extended. Spite looked up at him, gave a warm smile and grasped the offered hand. The knife he'd been holding wound up pressed between their palms, the blade standing straight up between their thumbs. Both gave a hard squeeze before letting go, the knife deftly staying in Spite's grasp. No words were spoken for several moments as the carving resumed.

"A seal," Stoick finally ventured.

His brother looked up again, seemingly affronted. He held up the crude, blocky figure between two fingers and turned it slightly. "Night Fury," he answered with a touch of indignation.

"Ah." He'd forgotten Spitlout, Snot's younger brother, was infatuated by the single example of that species which lived on Berk. "Long way to go, then."

Spitelout frowned, examined his work again and sighed. "I suppose." He applied himself to the wood once more with determination.

"So, what news?"

"Your trading mission's been postponed for a bit."

The frown that had just vanished from Spite's wind burned face reappeared on Stoick's. "What? I thought Rorik was nearly ready."

"It was. Until the rudder post broke this morning." His brother looked up once more. "Ingifast was testing the rigging in the harbor and a big wave rolled in. He got smacked against a rock. Tore out the fittings and gouged the hull, too. He figures he'll need another week or two."

The chief shook his head. "Hogknee's not going to like that."

"A stray wave," Spitelout said with a shrug. "Could happen to anyone."

"Yeah." Stoick looked around, noticing how quiet it was in his brother's house. "Anything going on with you?"

"Nuh. Halla's stomach is acting up again." He casually waved the knife at the house behind him. "She went to bed. Snot's out stalking Jaspin for training. And Spit's mad his duck eggs didn't hatch out."

"Mmm, well you did warn him."

"Yeah, for all the good it did. Maybe we can arrange to find him some Night Fury eggs." He looked up at Stoick from under his shaggy brows, a faint grin on his face.

"That's out of my hands," the older man chuckled. "Anything else?"

Spite suddenly sat up, an odd look on his face. "Matter of fact, Anvindr seems to have been in a fight."

"Great," Stoick muttered. "With who?"

"Dunno, but he seems to have gotten the worst of it. Mashed his face up pretty good."

"He hasn't said anything?"

"Nuh, and neither has anyone else." Spitelout shrugged again. "Didn't figure it was worth pursuin'."

"Probably not," Stoick agreed. "Well, I'll talk to ya tomorrow." He pointed to the wooden 'dragon'. "When you're ready to paint it, Dotta has this season's ink just about finished."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Stoick took a few steps away then turned. "If you're sure it's not a seal."

Spitelout lazily made as though he would hurl his knife at his brother. "Get." His eyes sparkled in the fading daylight.

It was a short stroll to Gobber's smithy from there. He didn't see or hear any sign of his friend and when he knocked on the door the only reaction was the appearance of George the Boneknapper's head around the corner. The dragon barely batted an eye at Stoick's presence before he stepped back to his sleeping spot.

Looking up, he could see the usual gaggle of Terrible Terrors. Strangely they were not flittering around the roof in their normal fashion. They were lying on whatever surface would hold them. One was even lying on its stomach, front legs dangling over the edge of the roof. It looked to be in some discomfort. The rest seemed... bloated somehow. He'd never seen Terrors get so large. He wondered if those smallest of dragons had finally figured out how to get into someone's food stores and gorged themselves. He'd have to ask Gobber about it.

Still wanting a meal and some ale, and figuring the great hall was as good a place to find Gobber as any, he headed in that direction. On his way, he passed his own house. There was weak light coming from under the door and around the shuttered windows. He stopped a moment, uncertain he wanted to go in. Surely Hiccup was inside, if the fire was lit. He hadn't spoken to him in some little time. Not even to tell him of the fishing voyage from which he'd just returned. A tiny prickle of guilt got his feet moving up the steps to the door.

There was a dying fire in the hearth and a large body lying along the east wall that raised its head at his entrance. The sudden motion and the firelight reflected in those large, wide-pupiled eyes gave him enough of a start that he gripped the door and the jamb, intending for an instant to slam the door and back away. But he calmed quickly. The black beast's presence meant his son was home, nothing more. He stepped inside, leaving the door open to let in a bit of the fading sunset's light.

Stoick put several large pieces of wood from the pile by the door onto the fire, knowing he'd want the light when he got home later. Hiccup was nowhere to be seen, and the dragon only watched him calmly. He concluded the boy must be upstairs, perhaps already in bed. It seemed a bit early but it wasn't unknown for Hiccup to wear himself out either in Gobber's forge or muddling about with his enormous pet.

Before long the hearth fire was leaping up, throwing larger shadows across the walls and ceiling. A quick rinse from the water bucket kept near the fire helped to get the sea salt off the skin of his arms and face. A moment's inventory of the cook pot told him his son had spent no more time in the house during his absence than he had. If he wanted to eat he would either have to make something himself or continue to the hall as he'd planned.

He gazed up the stairs, wondering if he should look in on his son. It might be he was only working up there. He kept much of his drawing and writing to himself, in his room. Since the Battle he'd noticed that, with the Fury's presence known, Hiccup had placed many of his drawings of the creature on the walls of his room. Other pictures he kept in his journals or tucked away somewhere. It was obvious that, in his son's reckoning, the dragon was the only subject worthy of being displayed.

Something moved him, some faint, undefined need to climb the stairs and push the door to Hiccup's room open. He did so quietly, lest the lad was sleeping.

No Hiccup.

The shutters of the small window were still open. In the evening's remaining light he could plainly see the utter lack of his offspring within. And there seemed to be even more drawings of the boy's reptilian companion nailed to the walls than he remembered. He spent a moment gazing at them.

The details were astonishing. There were whole pages dedicated strictly to individual portions of the beast's anatomy. Three or four sheets held nothing but intricate depictions of the large wings and their bone structure. Two more nearby had the Fury drawn in outline only and surrounded by measurements. He looked behind him and saw the wall opposite was essentially a testament to the dragon's tail and its complex structure, intermixed with references to the device Hiccup had created to replace that small but crucial portion lost last autumn.

He turned back toward the door and saw yet more drawings, ones that had nothing to do with the study of the beast's body. This wall was liberally dotted with pictures that did nothing less than celebrate the fierceness, majesty and affectionate nature (at least toward Hiccup) of the creature. One showed the dragon napping beneath a tree; another depicted it standing over a pile of fish it was devouring; yet another was of the Fury in profile, lounging on a cliff top as it looked out over a calm sea. To Stoick's eyes it seemed his son had given the dragon an expression of longing, perhaps to join a pair of far distant sea birds drawn as mere curved lines.

A pair of sheets directly over the doorway caught his eye. On the left was a drawing of the Fury in its most threatening posture; wings spread, mouth open with teeth exposed, eyes narrowed and pupils slitted. The right hand drawing showed it looking as friendly as any village cat; seated with its ear fins up, its eyes and pupils wide and calm and its long tail wrapped around its taloned feet.

Despite his mild appreciation of Hiccup's artistic abilities, he felt rather uncomfortable in this room. His son wasn't present and he felt oddly disturbed by the idea of so many draconic eyes watching him, even if they were only parchment.

So where was Hiccup? Why would his dragon be here when he wasn't?

More puzzled than concerned, he went back downstairs. Still the Night Fury watched him, calm but curious.

Might he be outside? Somewhere nearby? Why would he have left his dragon? He stared at the lazing reptile with a slight furrow creasing his brow. A muted tingle of alarm started to creep up his spine.

As if reading his mind, the dragon slowly lifted one black wing to reveal the sleeping form of Hiccup.

Stoick took a deep, steadying breath. He'd seen this before but still wasn't happy about it. Hiccup had a perfectly good bed to sleep in. He wanted to wake his son, send him upstairs where he belonged. Lying on the floor next to a dragon was just...

The Night Fury's head tilted down to look at the young man nestled against its side. Stoick felt strangely paralyzed. For several long moments both he and the dragon were absorbed in watching Hiccup's slow, steady breathing. The look on his son's face was one of peace and contentment, an expression he seldom had while awake. No more than his father did.

Stoick felt himself calming. Hiccup, he remembered, was alive and safe because of this dragon. The Fury wouldn't let anything happen to him. In truth the creature was the best form of protection a father could want for someone as prone to unintentional chaos as Hiccup had been. Their seemingly unbreakable bond meant that the boy would have at least one set of eyes focused on his well being at all times.

While he was thinking on this, the dragon lowered his head and gently nuzzled the boy's ear. It snuffled the tangled hair, a look of satisfaction quite plain on its wide, dark face.

Stoick wasn't prepared for the memory that sight brought up in him. He suddenly recalled Hiccup's mother, his wife, doing essentially the same thing to their infant son. She would snuggle the child close and nuzzle his ear, then grin at Stoick when the boy would gurgle quietly in response.

The conflicted feeling that rushed through him kept Stoick pinned there for many minutes, unable to shake the rightness/wrongness of the whole situation. A large part of him hated that a dragon could possibly be compared to Hiccup's mother, while the rest of him knew that the boy was grown enough to form his own relationships without his parent's guidance. Even if he chose to cleave to a deadly beast like the Fury.

Why did the gods have to make life so complicated?

The dragon raised its head, looked straight at Stoick. It crooned quietly to him, looking almost exactly like the right hand drawing he'd just seen. Its calm expression and quiet utterance were a plain message to the boy's father. No matter how anyone felt about it the two were bound together and would remain so.

Stoick knew loyalty when he saw it.

Still very much uncertain how he felt about the whole situation, he resumed his short trek to the great hall. He still needed to fill his empty belly and find Gobber. Without really thinking about it he nodded to the dragon as he walked out.

As he passed the cold end of the fire pit he noticed a few odd lines drawn in the ashes. He spared them only a passing glance. Hiccup's work, he assumed. His son was always writing and drawing in strange places.

* * *

Freya and her two daughters were filling the mead hall with the wondrous scents of hearty stew and sizzling meat. A goodly portion of the villagers had been drawn in by the smell of roasting boar. Stoick had to hunt for the one Viking among many he sought. He nodded and waved at the many greetings and inquiries concerning his brief fishing voyage. By the time he'd gotten a mug and plate filled and dropped a half penny in Freya's collection bowl he felt he'd met a third of Berk's population. He sniffed appreciatively at the steaming meat, detecting some of the rare spices the hall's chief cook managed to collect and use. Many had asked her where she got them and how she used them but she remained silent. Thus did she earn a comfortable living providing fare no one else could create.

Gobber was seated with Ingifast, the smith taking sips of ale from his 'mug stick' and the shipwright nursing a horn of mead. Between them lay some very old sheets of parchment with faded marks strewn across them. The two men looked up as Stoick seated himself across from them.

Ingifast gave a somber, "Chief" for a greeting while Gobber grinned and tossed off a casual, "Oy Stoick." He nodded sociably as he set down his plate and mug.

"Are those the old maps Freygerd was telling me about," he asked before he took a long swallow of ale.

"Aye, and none too helpful." Ingifast sounded displeased, but he suspected the poor quality of the maps had less to do with his mood than his accident that morning.

"Eh, that's true," Gobber agreed cheerfully. "But bad maps are better than no maps at all. At least we know which direction to try first."

Wiping the grease from his left hand on his trouser thigh, Stoick pulled one of the precious documents toward him to see for himself. "Are they too faded to read?"

"Someone used poor inks when they did these," the oldest of the three men complained. He rapped a scarred and sun bleached knuckle on the sheet Stoick was examining. "But that's not the worst of it."

The chief could see the problem for himself. There was shockingly little information on the so-called map.

"These are apparently copies someone made of the originals," the shipwright went on. "But they left out most of the important information. There are no distances marked, no currents marked, half the islands don't have names and none of them are shown to be inhabited. These maps tell us nothing!"

Gobber rubbed a soot-stained thumb along the edge of one of the parchments, leaving a trace of gray behind. "You know, I'd bet the originals got burned up shortly after Hoskuld Ulunda and his bunch got here during the first dragon attacks. These were probably done from someone's memory." He looked up at Stoick thoughtfully. "And I'd also bet their memory wasn't too keen after the shock of realizing how serious their situation was."

"You're probably right," the chief said.

That obviously didn't sit well with Ingifast. "It don't matter the why, does it? Should we be sending out important folk in that little ship to go beyond any reckoning without at least some idea where to go and where not?"

Stoick chewed a mouthful of roast boar, considering the older man's disturbed state. It certainly wasn't a Viking attitude, to worry about the unknowns of a distant voyage. But he knew the shipwright well; older and wiser and rightfully proud of the ships he built. His was the outlook of a settled mind, one that wanted some peace and security. It wasn't too hard to figure out what was really bothering him. The chief swallowed his mouthful.

"It wasn't your fault."

Ingifast blinked in surprise at the statement, and then fought to keep the obvious dismay from his face. "I... I-"

"Spitelout told me. Nothing you could have done."

The hand that lay across the table to point an accusing finger at the meager maps slowly curled into a trembling fist. "I shouldn't have gone out alone," he said softly. "I used to handle any karve by myself, no troubles." He gave a distressed bark of laughter. "When I was younger I could sail a knarr all alone, handle all the rigging, knew what the waters were doing." His voice faded and his eyes dropped to the maps. "Should have had one of the lads with me," he muttered to himself.

"A stray wave won't respect anyone's age, young or old," Stoick told him. He grinned beneath his huge red beard. "And youth doesn't make an able sailor, anyhow. I recall you telling me that once. After I sailed my first skiff too close to Jagfang Rock. That one wave lifted me up and speared me clean onto it like a potato on a knife. Left me sitting there, water up to my waist, mad enough to burst into flames."

A reluctant smile came to the old man's lips and his eyes twinkled at the memory. "Aye, I remember. Come sundown your father tosses us into his ship to look for you and we're not out five minutes before we see you, still sitting there, your arms folded and your face dark as thunder."

Stoick nodded. "And who put that poor skiff back together so a hard headed boy could get back on the water?"

Now Ingifast grinned. "Same as built it. A job it was, too." He shook his head at the thought.

The chief placed his hand over the relaxed fist. "And I know you'll put the same care into Rorik to fix what that stray wave did to it."

The shipwright clapped his other hand on top of Stoick's and nodded. They let go and the older man turned to the smith. "Speaking of, I'll need new fittings for the rudder post. The upper one tore clean off and's gone. The lower, well, it's still hanging on but it's all bent up."

"Not a problem. I'll get on it first thing tomorrow."

Ingifast turned back to their chief. "So, what'll we do about these maps?"

Stoick waved a hand at the few other parchments lying about the table. "Are they all like this?"

"Every one," Gobber confirmed.

He thought about it a moment, then declared, "I'll talk to Freygerd about it in the morning. She's the one who had them stored away, wasn't she?"

"Aye. Took her a bit of time to lay hands on them, too."

Stoick nodded. "Maybe she'll have an idea how to read these. Perhaps she might find more of them hidden away somewhere."

Mollified that someone was taking care of the problem, Ingifast eventually excused himself and headed off for his small seaside shack. Once he was gone, Stoick grinned at Gobber.

"Don't guess you'll be too happy with your lot tomorrow, eh?

"Mmm?"

The chief gestured toward the harbor in general. "I know how much you hate to remake things that get destroyed only days after you finished making them."

Gobber gave a casual wave of his hand and took another drink. "Ach, it'll be more useful than what I've been doing the last two days."

"What's that?"

The smith looked at him over the rim of his mug, his expression suddenly turning gloomy. "Feeding Terrors."

Stoick gave a slight scowl. "Is that why none of them are fit to fly? They looked like they'd broken into the larders and stuffed themselves silly."

"Oh no," Gobber sighed. "I'm the one's been doing the stuffing."

"But why?"

"Been trying to train 'em. Figured food would be the best method."

After a long moment of silence, punctuated only by a long, noisy slurp of ale passing Gobber's lips, Stoick finally had to prompt his friend for more. "Train them for _what?_"

"Carrying messages," the smith replied, as though it should be obvious. "Didn't work, though. They'll take the food just fine but they won't do a bloody thing you ask of 'em."

"Messages," Stoick intoned.

"Was Hiccup's idea, but this time the dragon master missed his mark. I think they're just stupid. Little bodies, little brains." Gobber waved his mug stick in emphasis. "George has got more smarts in one claw than Phil has in his whole body."

Stoick let that conversation go. It didn't entirely make sense to him and he had to wonder how many times his friend had filled his mug that evening. He attacked the boar on his plate before he turned the conversation to another topic of concern.

"So do you have any idea who Anvindr tangled with?"

Jarred by the change of subject, Gobber merely said, "Eh?" He stared at the chief a moment before shrugging carelessly. "Didn't know he had."

"That's what Spitelout told me. He made it sound like he'd taken several to the face."

"Way he goes on sometimes, it doesn't surprise me."

Stoick nodded. "Nor me." He hesitated, looked around to see if anyone else was near enough to listen in. No one was. "He hasn't given up his idea of taking dragons into battle."

Gobber seldom criticized the tribe's leader, and never in public. But the way he silently stared was comment enough. His eyes said everything he was thinking.

Holding up a hand Stoick said, "I know, but now that he's got a Nightmare to work with he's more determined than ever. I couldn't stop him without setting him dead against me. So I took the chance and agreed to let him go ahead. I'm hoping his dragon will be able to do what I couldn't and make him see reason."

"I don't really think he's ever seen reason," Gobber muttered darkly. "He'll either get himself or his dragon killed, more like." He glanced down, a worried frown pulling down the corners of his long mustache. "Assuming he doesn't get off to one of these islands and start another war for us that we're not prepared for." He pointedly tapped the map lying before Stoick.

The chief was still of two minds about it. Rather than go through the argument they'd already had over the subject, he simply nodded and asked, "Keep an ear out, would you? If you hear anything..."

The master smith nodded knowingly. "Oh aye. You'll be the first to know."

"Thanks." He looked the old parchments over once more, an idea suddenly coming to him. He thumped a finger heavily onto the nearest one. "He's not to know about these."

Gobber nodded and tipped his head toward the doors. "I'll tell Ingifast, too. Though I doubt those two will have reason to chat."

Stoick only grunted.

By the time he left the hall, all the worries he'd left behind for fishing had come back to roost firmly on his shoulders. He strolled slowly toward his house, enjoying the cool night air. Crickets and night birds sang to each other in somber tones. A full moon lit the houses of the village with that ghostly light that cast blurry shadows across the ground.

Without really intending to, he passed his house and went further down until he was standing in the gathering circle in the middle of the village. There he stopped and stood, letting his mind wander where it would for a time. The sounds and smells of a peaceful early evening came to him. Someone nearby stepped outside long enough to fill a pitcher from their rain barrel.

What would they find? In the stillness of his mind and his village, the question once again came up and presented itself. He'd turned it over in his thoughts several times before, but could not settle it to his satisfaction. What would Rorik find when they eventually came upon one of the islands shown on those meager maps?

The possibilities were many. Other tribes may have had no interactions with dragons except those which had isolated Berk. Or dragons may have spread across the oceans and wars continued to rage in places only their ancestors had known of. Perhaps those attacks had led to quick victories, either on the Viking's side or the dragon's.

Maybe dragons had been tamed and domesticated generations ago among those other islands, as he'd suggested to Kettlecrack, and Berk was the last to learn the secrets of training them.

Each scenario required a different approach and setting out as a well intentioned (but well armed) trading voyage gave the best advantage. But what if something else had happened out there? What if some other event had taken place for which they were completely unprepared?

What if dragons had overrun the world?

Stoick wanted to go. More than anything he wanted to be on Rorik when it left and guide that foray into the wild, rolling unknown. But with the voyage possibly lasting for months, Berk's leader needed to stay. Spitelout would have to lead the mission. He was the next best qualified. He had faith in his younger brother's ability.

But he still wanted to go.

As his thoughts churned and whirled with the excitement and uncertainty of future days, he realized he was hearing something strange. It was a sound that seemed familiar but that he'd not heard in months. He turned his head toward the disturbance and walked in that direction.

Some distance from the gathering circle he came upon a scene that defied sense. In a spot a ways from any house there were two dragons, a Nadder and a Gronckle. Between them, lying on the ground, was the carcass of a sheep. It was obviously dead since it was completely still while two dragons stood over it and one of its hind legs was missing. Its fleece was also liberally covered in the dark brown that moonlight made of blood

They had squared off over the dead sheep, the Nadder making darting attempts to nab the prize while the Gronckle defended it with huge snaps of its immense jaws. Stoick knew the larger, rounder and slower Gronckle would have a hard time matching the Nadder's speed, but its tenacity would make up the difference. Every time the two-legged dragon got a bite of skin or wool the slower dragon drove it off by trying to bite its head.

The shock of seeing dragons fighting each other rather than Vikings slowed the chief's reaction. He was also unused to seeing dragons fighting so quietly. They were growling and snarling, the sounds that had drawn him there, but there was no roaring or spraying of fire. Such a commotion would have had the whole village out to investigate.

Another odd event then took place. Both dragons stopped moving and stood facing each other, the sheep just in front of the Gronckle. They began making low growling and clucking noises, interspersed with whines, chuffs and gurgles.

Stoick shook off his surprise and realized this was the answer to the Ornolf's missing sheep. Regretting he had no weapon more formidable than his dagger he launched himself at the Nadder.

Luck was with him for his first strike. The Nadder had cocked its head to stare at the Gronckle with one eye and thus did not see Stoick's approach. In the brilliance of the moonlit clearing, however, the Gronckle did. That one took a step back and turned its eyes to him as he ran up behind the Nadder.

The eyes of the Gronckle widened and it barked a short roar. It must have warned the Nadder because just as he came within an arm's length of sweeping his dagger along the thinner belly scales of the two-legged dragon it side-stepped his attack. He hadn't expected to get a serious strike in with so short a blade but to fail to connect at all annoyed him. Veteran of countless desperate moments of close combat with the beasts, he easily followed the side-step and reversed the sweep of his failed attack into a blow with the dagger's handle to the vulnerable underside of the Nadder's jowls. His running attack carried him past those deadly teeth after he landed his first solid blow. He spun around, keeping the Gronckle in sight but facing the Nadder.

That was exactly the moment Stoick's world began bending further out of shape. It would be some time before he understood it, but the changes that had so greatly altered his village would diminish in comparison to what was coming.

The Nadder shook its head at the blow, but otherwise remained as it was. Stoick should have felt a moment's satisfaction at having connected so well with the animal's weak spot. Instead he was filled with a quickly building rage. Months of walking near the bloody beasts had dulled his warrior skills. At that instant he realized he was dead, a victim of months of reduced vigilance. He was standing alone, the village completely unaware of his struggle. He was facing two dragons fighting over food with nothing more than a meat knife in his hands. His fatal mistake, however, had been stopping.

Dragons were supreme predators, but still only animals. When they attacked, they kept at their prey until the battle was over. If you stopped moving for an instant, you would be set upon immediately. That was one of the first lessons in dragon training: never stop moving, press the attack just as they did.

The wrongness of it all had tripped up Stoick's mind. Seeing what he'd seen tonight between these two dragons had confused him and set him off his instincts. Now he stood like some teenaged fool, waiting for his death. If one didn't burn him to a pile of ash the other would. The worst part of it all, he realized in a blinding flash, was that his impending immolation was all ultimately Hiccup's fault.

Stoick the Vast, for all his knowledge and experience and wisdom, was entirely unprepared for what happened next.

Nothing.

The beasts stared at him. No attack came; no fire, no teeth, no claws. The instant he expected death came and went and was followed by several more of utter stillness.

Now he had a real problem. Staying still meant accepting death. Either dragon could blast him at a whim. The fact neither had so far was confusing but acceptable. But if he moved to protect himself or to press the attack he never should have stopped, he'd invite attack and surely perish anyway.

Helplessness was not a feeling Stoick could deal with. The powerlessness of his situation pressed on him harder each passing moment. He couldn't just stand there and if he moved he'd certainly die.

The Gronckle turned its eyes to the Nadder and uttered a strange coughing growl. Stoick's heart lifted. He had no idea what was going on with these two creatures; perhaps one was diseased or mentally damaged. But if the Nadder would just turn its attention away from him for an instant, he'd have a chance to live after all.

More chattery noise from the Gronckle, and finally it happened. The Nadder turned its head to view the other dragon. Stoick seized his only opportunity.

For all his size and weight, the village's leader was still quick enough to move very short distances with good speed. Using a bit of knowledge he'd gained long ago, he directly rushed the Nadder's head. He wasn't truly in the beast's blind spot, but the animal had only one eye turned in his direction. It would not be able to gauge the distances well, and Stoick was moving too fast for it to counterattack effectively.

A war hammer was the preferred weapon for a blow delivered the way he intended. But the handle of his dagger would have to suffice. His father had once told him that punching a dragon in the mouth was like pounding one's fist into a barrel of nails. It was unlikely you would do any real damage and the opponent's weapons would injure you without it having to do any work. Stoick had learned that was only partly true, and he'd done it entirely by accident. A lucky shot with a hammer aimed at a Nadder's eye while it raised its head had shown that a hard blow to the edge of its mouth where the teeth protruded would split the skin of its lip and send a shock of pain through its head.

He had no hammer, but his dagger handle would do; using his hand would only break fingers. That meant he couldn't press the other half of his attack effectively. If he'd had two daggers, he might have actually drawn blood. Instead of burying a second weapon to its hilt in the underside of the Nadder's jaw, he slammed his powerful fist into that softer flesh.

The double strike set the Nadder back on its heels. Its tail spikes rose and the tail itself snapped like a whip. It didn't thrash hard enough to throw the spikes; its movement was only reactionary and not well aimed. Stoick dodged easily and pressed his attack.

But the Nadder had had enough. It hopped backwards, a trickle of dark blood dripping from the edge of its mouth. It squawked a shrill note and took off. Stoick followed for several steps before he realized it was leaving for good and not trying to get a better angle for attack. Not forgetting the other beast, he whirled to face the Gronckle. They were far harder to deal with hand to hand, built like boulders as they were. He knew a few other tricks that might help against it, though.

Seeing the Gronckle, he froze. The beast was staring at the dead sheep. The look on its large, warty face was strangely mournful. It nudged the sheep, as though hoping to wake it from its permanent slumber. It moaned quietly, the softest, saddest noise Stoick had ever heard a dragon make. It then looked up, directly at him. It made a few more quiet growly lamentations before nudging the sheep again. Slowly it backed away from the carcass, turned and took a few steps before setting its wings in motion. It flew away, skimming the ground.

Stoick watched the dragon fly off into the night, confused, angry and worried. He wasn't sure what he felt, but it wasn't good. He looked down at the sheep. "What in Thor's name just happened?"

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and clear. Hiccup and his dragon had already left. Stoick made himself a breakfast of oaten porridge while he considered the events of the previous day. His only plans were to seek out Freygerd so that he might consult with her about the maps she'd found.

The morning meal and the short walk in the bracing air vastly improved his mood as he headed through the village. A smile came easily to him as he greeted those villagers who were out and about.

His cheer became tainted with mild apprehension when he realized the very person he sought was herself moving about the village. She and Bonescrape were speaking quietly in the doorway of the younger woman's house. Bonescrape was Dotta Blacktongue's sister and wife to Grumblemud. Stoick approached, expecting to interrupt a bit of village gossip or perhaps some words of wisdom from Berk's most respected elder.

He wasn't expecting the solemn look both women wore as they noticed his presence. Bonescrape's face showed a bit of relief before she turned once more to Freygerd and asked, "Will you..." The old woman nodded and clasped her arm briefly before turning fully to face the chief. Bonescrape gave a brief but courteous greeting then withdrew into her house.

"Stoick," Freygerd said quietly. "How fortunate our paths should cross. I have need to speak with you."

Feeling his apprehension grow to a small, cold lump in his stomach, Stoick nodded. "And I you." He waited as the small woman made her way cautiously down the steps and began walking toward her distant cottage.

"Have you considered what I told you," she asked, her words punctuated by the soft sound of her staff marking the beat of her uneven stride across the damp ground.

As he'd expected, she brought up the very subject he'd wanted to avoid. He hesitated in his reply. He had, in fact, tried rather hard to forget what she'd told him about his son. Her words had not been a comfort to the leader of the tribe, nor to the father of the boy. He tried to find the best answer. "I..." She glanced aside at him and he paused. No, he decided. Attempting to deceive her was neither respectful nor wise. Nor was it likely to succeed. "I have not," he said softly. "I... could not."

Freygerd nodded as though she had expected as much. "I know my words were difficult to hear for one as proud and important as the leader of the tribe." She walked on in silence a moment. "I have no doubt you wish things were different." Stoick could only nod.

She stopped then, turned and looked up at him. The difference in their size made it hard for her to meet his eyes and he had to suppress the urge to kneel before her. She would not have appreciated the gesture, no matter how practical it may have been. "Do you believe I speak the truth in this matter," she asked quietly.

"Of course."

She nodded again. "Then you will let my words into your heart when you are ready." Onward toward her cottage she went, saying no more on the subject.

Once inside she offered him hospitality but he declined. His thoughts were moving like small fish, darting here and there and never completely clear. As he had before he forewent using the small stool she offered as a seat and sat instead on the bricks of her modest hearth. The bricks were the only thing he felt would support him. Sitting down so low also helped keep the jars and pots hanging from the roof timbers from obstructing his view of her.

After Freygerd had filled a clay mug with water and satisfied her own thirst, she sat heavily in her chair and sighed wearily. Stoick hadn't noticed until that moment how worn she looked. He worried she might be getting ill. Before he could frame a question about it she spoke.

"What service may I do for you, Stoick?"

He got straight to the point, not wanting to waste the elder's time. "Gobber and Ingifast need help reading the maps you found. And we were wondering if there are any more that we could look at."

Drawing a long, deep breath and letting it go slowly, she shook her head. There was a tone of regret in her voice. "Those you have now are all there ever were. And those copies were made in my life time."

Stoick blinked in surprise. "That recently?"

She nodded sadly. "I was only a little girl at the time, but I remember the great sorrow my grandmother felt when she told me of it. Her chief, your great grandfather, had designs to seek the aid of other tribes against the dragons. His uncle, who had wanted to be chief but never been accepted by the tribe, hid the maps to thwart him. He buried them. By the time it was discovered and they were dug up, all that remained on the parchments was the little you saw on those copies I gave you."

He briefly wondered why he'd never heard such a story from his family, but quickly realized such dishonorable behavior would be struck from memory. Freygerd, being old enough to have heard the tale first hand, was the only means of passing the story on, and that only by coincidence.

"Then we really will be sailing into the unknown," he muttered to himself.

"As Vikings have done in the past," she reminded him.

He chuckled ruefully. "Aye."

She held up a gnarled hand. "There is something I feel you must know." She looked to her left, toward the small window that faced the open doorway of her house. There was a strangely wistful look on her face. She turned back to the chief of the tribe. "Bonescrape is worried about her son, Oddlog. His dragon, a Gronckle he calls Seasquirm, has disappeared."

"Are you-" 'Serious' was the word Stoick managed to keep behind his teeth. There was no reason to believe Freygerd wasn't serious. He thought a moment, trying to keep his expression calm. "Are you sure it's missing and not just flown off to do whatever it is dragons do?"

"Oddlog believes so, and Bonescrape believes him."

The boy was fifteen and one of Kabbi's best apprentices. He had the making of a fine tanner. He also was adept at spear and shield, having earned Mord's praise more than once. Oddlog would eventually become a fine warrior and a useful member of the tribe. So why would his mother be worried about him because of a missing dragon?

"What is it that has her concerned?"

The slightest frown pulled at the deep creases of her mouth. "He misses his dragon and wishes for its return."

For a moment Stoick was confused. How was this any concern of his? If the dragon came back, well and good for the boy. If not then he could find himself another.

"He's not been in Kabbi's house nor has Mord seen him in the arena," she continued.

Now he got angry. "Then he needs to be reminded that all Vikings have duties to the tribe. Send him to me tonight and I'll settle the matter."

The weariness in her posture and expression vanished. "You don't understand, Stoick." There was hard edge to her voice and a glint in her eyes that reminded him that the Stone Hand was not a woman with whom a body trifled. "He's gone. He's out looking for Seasquirm. Bonescrape hasn't seen him in three days."

Stoick reigned in his temper, but it wasn't easy. He was most displeased to hear of Oddlog's irresponsible behavior but clearly Freygerd considered this an important matter. He just couldn't understand why.

"I used to wander the island a week at a time at his age," he said calmly.

"Distraught and looking for a missing friend?" she queried sharply.

It was the word 'friend' that pushed him a little too hard. "If a young fool's befriended a sneaky, thieving reptile then that's his problem. If it's gone missing then he can find another. It's no reason to ignore his duties to the village."

"Thieving?" she asked quietly, puzzled by his choice of words.

"They're still stealing sheep! I caught two of them fighting over a dead one last night." The anger and confusion over that event came rushing back, reigniting life long hatreds. "I should have known letting them in the village was a bad idea. You can't change their nature." He was growling more to himself than anything. "You can't trust them, they're animals, a flying scaly fire-breathing plague-"

"STOICK!"

He'd forgotten. He'd honestly forgotten the power of Freygerd's voice when she chose to use it. For an irrational instant fear stabbed at his heart as he remembered her calling his name in so commanding a fashion, knowing he'd been caught in some childish misadventure. He quickly shook off his unease and looked her straight in the eyes.

"Tell me," she asked in more civilized tones, "about this fight."

He took a calming breath and spoke quietly, annoyed he'd let his emotions get away from him. "A Nadder and a Gronckle were fighting each other just outside the village last night. One of them killed a sheep and the other was trying to take it away."

She stared at him for a long moment. It was hard to say if the look on her face was one of disbelief or disappointment. Neither reaction made sense to him.

"What did you do?"

"What I've always done with dragons stealing our herds. I drove them off."

Again she stared for a bit.

"Did they attack you?"

"No," he answered with satisfaction. "The Nadder flew off. The Gronckle..." It came back to him then, the strange behavior of the other dragon.

"Yes?"

Stoick shook his head, his immense beard shushing quietly across his broad chest. "It... it acted strangely. It may have been sick."

Freygerd narrowed her eyes. "What did it do?"

"It acted... it seemed as though it were..." He found it hard to say, and even wondered if he'd really seen it the way he remembered it. "It looked like it was... upset... about the sheep being dead."

"Upset?" Freygerd now had an expression he couldn't rightly read. He was beginning to wish he'd not mentioned it. After a moment's consideration, she said, "You drove the Nadder away, and the Gronckle was upset about the sheep being dead. Did it eat it? Did it take it?"

"No," Stoick admitted. "It poked at it a bit then flew off on its own and left the sheep behind."

The elder bowed her head and stared at her hands. She said nothing for a time. Then she looked once again at the back wall of her cottage, where the little window let in the morning's light. She muttered something softly.

"What?"

She turned worried eyes to her chief. "Something's wrong."

Stoick leaned back. It was odd, yes, but not worrying. Not until the wisest person in the village became alarmed by it.

"What is it? Is there a sickness among the dragons?"

Freygerd shook her head slowly. "I don't know." She looked out the open door of her cottage, staring at the village beyond. "But I feel it's important."

"What should we do?" He knew what he wanted to do. "Should we drive the rest of the dragons out of the village?"

Her head snapped around, disapproval obvious in her eyes. For one so old and frail, she still had the strength and fierceness of heart that made her a true Viking.

"You must speak to Hiccup about this. He's the only one of us who might be able to find such answers."

That hadn't been the answer he'd wanted. Not at all.

* * *

Stoick wandered. He knew his son wasn't at home. He had no idea where he might be. And his heart wasn't really in his effort to find him. So he simply wandered the village. He greeted those who spoke to him but didn't invite conversation. He needed time to think. He headed toward the cliffs that overlooked the harbor.

For so much of his recent life his problems with his son had been rivaled only by his problems with dragons. He'd fought against each, tried to figure out how to bring about the solutions he wanted. In the years before the Battle, it had gotten harder. The dragons took an increasing toll on ships and men and Hiccup had become an unintentionally destructive nuisance.

After the Battle, it had seemed the two problems had resolved each other. Hiccup had brought the dragons into the fold, had them walking among villagers like pets.

But now it seemed as though the two sides were parting once more. His son grew more distant with each day and now dragons were reverting to their old behaviors. He didn't want to resume the war on the beasts. Berk wasn't strong enough yet for that. He only wanted them out of their lives. Destroying them might yet be the only way to remove the threat they posed, but such action would have to wait.

Dealing with Hiccup would likely be more difficult than ever. The promise the boy had shown over the skies of Red Death Island had lifted his heart until it felt like his chest would burst. The weeks after his recovery were as a dream come true. Hiccup had stepped forward and taken a leader's role in starting the integration of dragons into the villager's lives.

Stoick had started making plans. With his son looking more like a suitable successor then ever, he'd tried getting him interested in the lessons of managing the daily needs of Berk's population. He'd realized that warrior training would be impractical for his son; not only was he still too slight to wield any weapon properly, he had most of his time taken up with his forge work, saddle making and instructing those who wanted to know more about their new pets. Stoick also reasoned that teaching Hiccup how to fight like a Viking wasn't really necessary while the protective nature of his black beast held the Fury at his side.

But Hiccup hadn't shown any interest in learning what he'd need to know to be a suitable leader of the tribe. He'd started ducking out of lessons, getting more involved in his own dragon than those of others and at times simply flying off for days at a stretch. When he pressed Hiccup on the importance of learning those skills, the boy began to close up again. He talked less, disappeared more. The one time he'd managed to get an answer from him about why he wouldn't take his lessons seriously Hiccup had said only, "Right now I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing. I haven't got a prayer of figuring out what _you're_ doing. Give me some time to get things worked out, would you?"

And that had been it. He stopped pressing and began watching. He realized two things at that point. First, his son was truly having difficulty getting himself settled into his own new routines. He'd started a new dragon manual and worked on that at night. He spent as much time as he ever had in Gobber's smithy and added his own next to their house. He was very attentive to the black beast and its needs. Hiccup was certainly not being lazy but he wasn't managing his self-appointed duties very well.

Second, he never really responded to his new popularity among his fellow tribesmen, especially with one in particular. Stoick had thought he'd seen the beginnings of a serious interest between Hiccup and the Hofferson girl, Astrid. Before long it was obvious something had gone wrong there. He assumed Hiccup had botched it, not being familiar with how to deal with women. Perhaps that was his fault. The loss if his wife had led him to lead the life of a dedicated bachelor and that was a poor example for a growing lad. Even the Thorston twin, Ruffnut, had tried to get his attention. Granted that was not a pairing Stoick would have approved, it still bothered him that Hiccup responded no better to her advances than he had to leadership training.

Stoick had stopped walking without realizing it. The weight of his problems had pulled at him until he gave up motion and just stood there, staring at the grass between his boots. Hiccup and dragons, he thought. The two never ending challenges.

He looked up, realizing he could hear the sound of the sea. He was within sight of the cliff top he'd sought. And some distance away stood a slim figure he recognized instantly. For good or ill, he'd found his son.

He took a deep, calming breath and began walking again. As he approached he saw Hiccup had his attention turned fully to the wide and cloudy landscape above their heads. There was tension in his thin frame. He looked up as well and saw a lone dragon moving among the white floating mountains high above Berk. He caught sight of it only briefly before it passed behind a vast pale curtain.

"Good morning son," he said softly, so as not to startle him. His presence did surprise the young man. Considering his expression, in more than one way.

"Dad!" He blinked several times, trying to shorten his focus. "What are- how are you?" His voice gave further evidence of his nervous state. He couldn't hold his gaze. He lifted his eyes once more, finding the dragon above him.

Stoick couldn't help but wonder if perhaps his son knew something of what had happened the previous night. "Oh, I'm fine. Just out for a walk. Talking to some folks." Still the lad kept his eyes aloft. "How are you?"

Hiccup's quiet reply of "I'm good," was unconvincing when he took in the clenched fists, the constant and clumsy shifting of his position, trying to pivot around on his good leg to keep the dragon in view.

The contradiction of words and appearance would have been amusing any other time. Just then he was more interested in finding out what Hiccup knew. But he had to be gentle about it. "Am I interrupting anything?"

His son pointed up. "It's his first solo." His lips moved again, forming words his breath failed to fill. Stoick took a step forward to hear him better. "I don't know what to do," Hiccup confessed. "I don't know how to feel." He looked up at the dragon wheeling lazily above, back down to his boy. That one spoke again. "I'm happy and terrified. What if he falls? I can't help him."

The words moved him as if by magic. He was standing behind Hiccup's mother, calming her as their energetic young son climbed a tree near their house. She'd said exactly the same thing. "What if he falls? What if he gets hurt?" The fierce Viking shield maiden he'd married stood with fear in her eyes as Hiccup climbed yet higher into the tree.

The same conflicted feeling that he'd felt the evening before swept over him; the loss of his beloved, the salvation of their son. He spoke, scarcely aware of the words as they came from his own mouth. "That's how a parent feels when their child becomes an adult and leaves for their own life."

Hiccup was obviously just as surprised by his words as he was. He looked at him, his expression wide eyed and vulnerable. Something seemed to pass silently between them, something he couldn't name. It stung his heart with unbearable warmth.

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the moment, he pointed up as a distraction and asked, "So, uh, who's learning to fly this time?"

Hiccup blinked, slower to pull away from that connection. He looked up again. "Toothless."

The shock of that struck him hard. He had always assumed no one else could operate the contraption that controlled the black beast's tail fin. Now he had to face the possibility that his son had put someone else in danger by letting them try to learn to fly the Night Fury.

"You let someone else fly on your dragon?" Once again Hiccup managed to turn a good day into a bad one.

"What?" The young man looked confused then shook his head. "No, no. Toothless is flying on his own. I made some changes to his tail rig. He can fly whenever he wants now." He clenched his small fists and stared harder at the fluttering speck in the sky. "As long as the rigging doesn't fail," he muttered worriedly.

This was just about as staggering to Stoick as the idea of Hiccup training someone else to fly the Fury. His boy had not only downed the most mysterious and dangerous of dragons, he'd tamed it, trained it and now restored its power of independent flight. How was it his son could do such incredible things yet couldn't summon the ability to lead the tribe? The thoughts wouldn't untangle in his mind.

The silence stretched out as the wind coming up over the cliff top nudged its way between them. Stoick suddenly remembered why he was there, and what Freygerd had told him.

"I... saw something last night. Maybe you could explain it to me."

"Oh?" Hiccup tilted his head slightly, looked askance at his father.

Stoick described the scene once more for his son. He gave a fuller account of it, hoping some detail might help explain what he'd seen. It definitely drew Hiccup's attention. He faced him, his eyes full of curiosity.

"I don't know, dad. It does sound strange." He thought about it a moment. "I suppose it could be those dragons were from the original nest, still feral and still used to coming here to get food." He shook his head in mild confusion. "That wouldn't explain the Gronckle's behavior, though." He looked up the considerable difference in their heights. "You didn't happen to notice which Gronckle it was, did you?"

Stoick frowned slightly. "Which Gronckle?"

Hiccup nodded. "Well, yeah. I mean, was it Thunderguts or Vermund? Seasquirm or, uhh... what's Runa's dragon called. Oh, yeah. Grubstick. Was it one of them?"

Stoick sighed. "They all look the same to me, son."

"Oh. Well..." He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I don't know what might cause them to act that way, or why they took the sheep." He looked up and said in an offhand manner, "But I can ask-"

Panic filled his eyes as he realized his dragon was nowhere in sight. He turned a small circle, searching the sky with widening eyes. He still couldn't find him.

"Where is he? Oh, gods, if the lines let go..."

Hiccup eventually turned toward Stoick, a stark look of fear on his face. He started to speak but his eyes locked on something behind him. The older man glanced over his shoulder to see the Night Fury coming in for a landing behind him.

His son gasped in relief. His hand reached out and gripped Stoick's arm, reflexively seeking support. He just stood there, breathing hard while the panic ebbed from his pale face.

As his son got over his fright he was again reminded of that day with Hiccup in the tree. His wife's concern had proven valid. The active but clumsy boy had slipped from some distance up the tree he'd chosen. By the time he hit the ground both his parents were running all out toward him. When they got closer they saw the boy had hit several branches on the way down. Being as thin and light as he was he hadn't broken the branches he hit except for the last one.

Stoick had breathed a great heaving sigh to find his son only dizzy and relatively unhurt. That momentary 'hit in the gut' feeling that had left him breathless was exactly like what Hiccup had just experienced.

For his dragon.

Hiccup let go of his arm without having been truly aware he'd grabbed it and moved quickly to the Fury's side, talking to it and looking the rig over.

Once again he felt there was some unsettling parallel between the black dragon and Hiccup's mother. He couldn't understand it and he had no idea how to deal with it. He hated the possibility that his son could have as much affection for his pet as he once had for his mother. The very idea was far more offensive than having the beast sleep in their house. It dishonored her, in his mind.

It wasn't that Hiccup had ever said anything to the effect that he felt closer to the dragon than he had to her. But there were his actions, which spoke so much louder. Such as now; Hiccup fawning over the creature and acting as if it could understand every word he said.

The more he thought on it, the angrier he got.

Loki take the dragons, he decided, and walked away quietly, unobserved.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN **This is actually one and a half chapters. I had three chapters planned out for the end of this second act of the story, but each was just too short on its own. So I split the middle chapter and added it to the others. That's why this one is longer and took more time to finish. The next will probably be the same. After that, we shift gears. Slowly, though.


	19. Status Symbols

Broken

Chapter 19: Status Symbols

Breaktooth Island, third in the long row of islands that made up the Snapspine Islands, was a lousy choice for hunting. It was the largest of the chain of rocky islets that made up the Snapspines and had plenty of trees and grass for the deer and boar that lived there to hide among and eat. But the uneven landscape was riddled with overgrown pitfalls and narrow cuts that were often hidden from view. Such features made it difficult to move quietly or quickly, something an accomplished hunter like Snotlout Jorgenson could certainly appreciate. It was, in fact, the reason he liked to hunt there. It made it more challenging.

His hunt had certainly been challenging today. He hadn't been able to get close enough to anything to get within spear-throwing distance. He liked hunting with spears, mostly because he liked throwing things. He preferred to go after boars, especially mothers with piglets or big tuskers. They were most likely to charge, making his work both harder and easier. He'd been hurt several times doing it, but most of those injuries were mild and left only faint scars that seriously disappointed him.

Looking around, Snotlout realized he'd traversed the length of the island without taking any game. He wondered if Asgeirr was having better luck. A glance at the sun told him he'd been at his hunt far longer than he'd thought. He needed to get back to the clearing.

Not expecting to see any animals along the path he'd just made to get where he was, he paid scant attention to his surroundings as he made his way back. Instead, he practiced spear thrusts at trees and draw-and-slash attacks against saplings. He was getting good at drawing his sword, making a single, well aimed swing at a target and returning the weapon to its scabbard in one smooth motion. He could even get the blade back in its sheath without looking most times. He'd accidentally given himself only one shallow cut on his thumb from the afternoon's practice against his leafy foes.

Just before he got to the clearing he saw a fairly thin tree before him with two sturdy pine saplings to either side. The tree was about as wide as his cousin Hiccup and made for a difficult target. He took a moment to plan his attack, hefted his spear once and took off running.

The moment the ash shaft left his hand his sword was out and swinging. He made one sweeping cut to the right, head high, followed through easily with a spinning slash toward the left. He wound up with his legs wide, leaning forward with his off hand held out before him and his shining blade held high to his right. He looked to his right; the immature pine never had a chance, cut clean in half. A glance to the left showed the second enemy similarly cleaved. Before him stood the tree he'd been aiming for. His spear was embedded a good thumb's length into the wood. He smiled with satisfaction as he drew it out and stepped into the clearing.

He heard the contented thrumming before he actually laid eyes on his Monstrous Nightmare. He also heard a wet crunch that could only be the bones of Asgeirr's prey being broken open for the marrow. Snotlout smiled to himself, pleased that his dragon had hunted successfully even if he had not.

As he broke into the clearing where they'd landed earlier the smell of slaughter reached him. The mixed odor of deer guts and dragon flame hit him, reminding him of the attacks Berk had endured until recently. It was a smell Snotlout used to find exciting; the scent of the life and death struggle between Vikings and dragons. Now it was commonplace, the scent of his dragon eating.

Asgeirr had his snout buried in the abdomen of a small buck, enjoying the organ meat within. His luminous eyes shifted slightly, tracking his rider's progress into the clearing before concentrating once again on his meal. The pleased thrum that came from his throat grew in volume at the Viking's presence. The serious business of eating was at hand, however. He raised his bloody snout, parts of the deer's internals dangling from his extremely large teeth. A shake of his head sent them flying before he plunged into the carcass once more.

Nearby were the decimated bones of a second deer and a third, untouched doe. Asgeirr had done very well, indeed. Snotlout sighed and looked for a good place to sit down. He knew better than to disturb his Nightmare when he was feeding. Finding a fallen log that hadn't yet rotted away he sat down with his sword across his knees. He took out the smooth gray stone he used for sharpening and began carefully honing the blade.

The repetitive motion of running the stone over the sword's keen edge was relaxing to him. The long strokes he used made a metallic rasping he found pleasing. He remembered lying in his bed at night as a child and hearing his father Spitelout sharpening his sword after a fight with the dragons. He'd come to find it immensely comforting, for it meant his father had survived another attack and was planning on being ready for the next. He also remembered the elaborate fantasies he'd concocted of how his life would be when he was old enough to join Berk's defenses. He had imagined standing on piles of dead dragons, basking in the admiration of his fellow villagers.

One villager in particular he had expected to impress: Astrid Hofferson. It had seemed pretty simple to him then; kill scores of dragons, get the girl. It was how his father and mother had come together, over the steaming body of a Nadder Spitelout had dispatched with two powerful strokes of his axe. At least that's how they told it.

His fantasies died a quick and unexpected death, however, thanks to his over-brained and under-developed cousin Hiccup. Killing dragons was now a thing of the past. He looked up at the Monstrous Nightmare across the clearing as it tore a haunch off the deer. A smile crept across his face.

As far as Snotlout was concerned, learning to tame dragons was the first thing Hiccup had ever done right. Asgeirr was an amazing creature and he was glad the dragon hadn't been killed before he got a chance to ride him into battle. Practicing his fighting skills had once been his favorite activity, but that was before he discovered the nerve-wracking thrill of riding a dragon. Best of all, his dragon was the largest of any that had stayed in Berk. It was known to be a tremendous fighter, just like his rider. The only other villager that still rode a dragon and had a Monstrous Nightmare was Anvindr, and his was a runt. He always felt a strong sense of satisfaction when he rode over the skies of the village, him and his dragon showing the world they were a force with which to reckon.

He wasn't much of a thinker, so it never occurred to him to wonder why no one had ever considered taming dragons before Hiccup. He simply knew that dragons were the only beasts worthy of being pets to true Vikings. Sheep were food and cats were pest control. But dragons, ah, dragons were pets and weapons and hunting partners and the ultimate transportation. They were, in his opinion, meant to serve next to Viking warriors.

Of course they were still dangerous animals that needed to be treated with the same respect one showed a well sharpened weapon. Fooling around with a dragon would only get one pointlessly injured or even killed, or perhaps injure the beast itself. Snotlout had learned quickly how to act toward Asgeirr. His father had given him the simplest yet most helpful advice. "It's a dragon. Treat it like a dragon. And always remember what dragons can do if you make them angry or fearful."

So far, he and his Monstrous Nightmare had gotten along quite well, especially after Hiccup had made them a saddle. He hadn't truly understood the need for the saddle until Hiccup had brought it to him and told him to test fit it on the back of Asgeirr's neck. Snot had looked at the oddly shaped leather contraption and asked simply, "What do I need that for?"

"To make it easier for the dragon to carry you," Hiccup had replied.

Snotlout had scoffed. "He doesn't have any trouble carrying me."

Hiccup had stared at him strangely. Then he said, "You sit on his neck, right?"

"Yeah."

"You hold onto his horns, right?"

"Yeah. So?"

Hiccup had pointed to his younger brother, playing nearby. "You ever carry Spitlout on your shoulders?"

Snotlout had furrowed his brow, not liking the comparison. "Yeah."

"Does he grab your ears and try to steer you that way?"

He'd felt a slight scowl pull at his mouth as he began to understand.

Hiccup had held up his newest creation. "Saddle," he said, shaking it slightly. He pointed to two metal bars mounted on the front of it. "Hand holds, so you can keep your grip without hanging onto Asgeirr's horns. That way, your dragon can turn his head while you're flying him. He can see where he's going. Better for you, better for him."

His scowl had faded. "Huh."

That hadn't been the last time Hiccup had helped him learn to deal with his dragon, either. The hopeless weakling had finally found what he was best at. Whenever Snotlout had trouble understanding what his Nightmare was doing, he could wander over to the smithy or the Haddock house and tell his cousin, "See if you can figure _this_ out."

Hiccup always did figure it out.

He picked up a broad leaf from the ground and ran it lightly over the edge of his blade. It sliced through effortlessly. He sheathed his sword, tucked away his sharpening stone and watched Asgeirr finish up the second deer.

The only thing that bothered Snotlout about having his pet dragon was that whenever he looked at the Nightmare, he was reminded of what Hiccup had done. And what he had changed.

The whole time Snotlout was growing up he'd viewed Hiccup as an irritation, someone he'd like to see vanish or, failing that, humiliated. Stoick's son had managed to humiliate himself often enough that putting effort into any serious pranks or jokes was hardly necessary. Though it could often be fun.

After the battle, having ridden on the back of a Monstrous Nightmare against the largest dragon anyone had ever seen, his attitudes toward dragons changed dramatically. So did his opinions about Hiccup.

Once the last drifting bits of ash and Death guts had settled on the beach, Snotlout found he could no longer view Hiccup as an object of derision. He was reminded of that fact every time he saw the exceptional scar his cousin now had to show for his efforts. Sure, it made walking harder and running nearly impossible, but no one who saw Hiccup's missing leg or his Night Fury companion could call him a coward or an annoyance.

That, unfortunately, had ruined another of Snotlout's plans. While Stoick had never hinted at such a decision, his own father had told him more than once that it was plainly obvious Lout was the only reasonable choice to be the next leader. What was more, his father wasn't alone in his opinion. Whenever he brought up the subject of the junior Haddock's lack of qualifications, those around him would agree with his views. Up until the end of their dragon training, he came to see his rise to the position of chief as practically inevitable.

In those first weeks after dragons had made themselves at home on Berk, however, it had looked like Stoick's son would actually be accepted as the next chief of the tribe. He had felt some irritation at that. But with Hiccup stumping around on a wood and metal leg and telling folks how to feed and care for their dragons, even Snotlout had felt a certain level of acceptance toward the idea of taking his father's place as Second to the chief.

Now, however, things had changed once again. Stoick wanted to contact other Viking tribes. That would almost certainly lead to finding some worthy foes to fight. And while Hiccup may have found the soft spot in dragons, he didn't have a hope of going up against other true Vikings. It wasn't that he still wanted his cousin to humiliate himself in failure. Snotlout now believed that if he could do well in any upcoming battles, he could still prove he was better suited for leadership than Hiccup. There was no way the twig boy would be able to handle other Vikings by feeding them fish or rubbing their cheeks.

Perhaps Snotlout would even have another chance to win Astrid over. Hiccup certainly hadn't made any progress in that regard. If anything he'd lost any chance of gaining Astrid's favor, let alone her father's.

With a final crunch and a few minutes' work to lick the blood off his long muzzle, Asgeirr finished his meal. The big red and black dragon looked Snotlout's way, then stood and approached the final deer. He nudged it with the tip of his muzzle, pushing it toward his rider. Snot stood as well and approached him, realizing his Nightmare was done eating. He put a large hand on the dragon's jowl and gave a comforting scratch.

"Is this one for me?" he asked, knowing the beast couldn't understand a word he said. He knew it was the tone of his voice that let the animal know how he was feeling. "Well, thank you Asgeirr. How about we take it home, eh?" His voice held a warmth it seldom had when he spoke to other people.

The dragon rumbled and thrummed and carefully nudged him on the shoulder with his snout. Snotlout smiled, happy to have the hunting trip turn out so well despite his lack of success. He climbed onto the saddle he'd left strapped around Asgeirr's neck and shoulders during the hunt and settled himself. The huge wings spread wide, already catching the ocean winds that made their way across the island. With a hop to snatch up the last deer lying in the clearing, they rose up into the sky with a roar and a fierce yell. Together they told the world they were a team to be respected; a bull Nightmare and his Viking rider, fighters to be feared.

* * *

She'd known it was coming. She'd been warned, told stories of how horrible it would be. Even her parents had said she would be in for a very difficult time of it. But there was no avoiding it. It was every villager's duty and a crucial skill. And it wasn't just the hard work, either.

It was the smell.

Astrid had been less than thrilled to learn tanning and leather craft from Kabbi, the old man whose house was the only one that stood further away from the village's gathering circle than Freygerd's. She hadn't shirked her responsibilities, though. She'd simply gritted her teeth and gone at the task of learning to tan hides with as much determination as she had in learning her hunting and fighting skills.

From the first, learning to fight dragons had been her primary goal. She had wanted to be the best shield maiden of her generation and protect Berk from the ravages of dragon attacks. Once the war with the dragons was over, she'd become a hunter. Einarr had taught her how to help protect her village from starvation and she'd taken to it with relish. The downside of being a hunter was that every animal she took that had a useful hide needed to be skinned and tanned, and that she would usually have to do that work herself. Kabbi was an old man, a widower who'd lost his wife long ago to a dragon raid and he could only do so much work himself.

She'd learned one good way to reduce the amount of skinning and tanning she had to do was to always give a portion of any kill to Folkvardr, her Nadder. With a leg or two missing from the carcass of any creature, the remaining hide was seldom worth keeping.

A few days ago, however, she'd gotten one of the largest bucks she'd ever laid eyes on. She'd found it on Greslardin, the biggest island to Berk's west and one of the best places to go for a hunt. Folkvardr had gone off while she was hunting and found himself a seal. Thus gorged, he'd been uninterested in taking a bite out of her deer. The whole carcass had come home and the skin, quickly and expertly removed by her aunt Freya, had gone with her to Kabbi's house.

So now she stood in her oldest clothes, the ones she reserved for the foulest jobs, and prepared to lay the buck's skin across the log she would be using as a scraping stand. The heavy, penetrating stench of death and feces had her gasping for several minutes until she'd gotten somewhat used to it.

Using a forked stick she stirred the skin which had been soaking in a half barrel of pungent fluids made to soften the hide and hair so it could be scraped clean. The odor seemed to come straight up from the small vat and hit her right in the face. She had to back off a moment, coughing.

When she turned back she saw Ruffnut walking toward her, a bloody bundle held in one hand with its end dragging in the dirt. The Thorston girl looked about as happy to be there as she was. Taller and leaner than herself, Ruffnut was as fierce a fighter as any. Astrid considered her a friend, but mostly because she was the only other young woman her age in the village. Ruffnut was a fair hunter and had learned much about making clothes from her own mother. She lacked focus, however, and often acted bored if she didn't have Tuffnut to fight with.

The lanky girl walked right up to the soaking tub her own deer hide was in and carelessly tossed her burden into the dark, smelly mess. She didn't even seem to react to the stench except for a quick shudder and brief squinting of her eyes. She looked around for a kneading stick. As she did, Astrid pulled her own prepared hide from the vat and let it drip a few minutes. Once Ruff had found a heavier pole for working the disgusting mixture into the pelt she'd tossed in, she looked at Astrid and gave a small nod and a quiet, "Hey."

"Hi Ruff," she answered. She could tell the female half of the twins was unhappy about something but until she started talking on her own, Astrid would not be able to coax anything from her. She gently shook out her deer hide and draped it across the scraping log.

For a time the only sounds were the pounding of Ruffnut's kneading stick and the harsh scraping of the somewhat blunted drawknife Astrid was using to clean her deerskin. Neither the atmosphere nor the work was conducive to small talk so she let herself concentrate fully on getting her work done as quickly and skillfully as possible. She'd gotten nearly half the hair off the outer side when she realized Ruff's pounding had stopped. She looked up.

The young woman was staring right at her, an odd look on her face. She said nothing. Ruffnut was known for strange behavior now and then, including such staring in the hopes of unsettling her victim. She'd never had any luck against Astrid with that particular ploy, however. Something else was going on.

"What," she asked, wondering if she should be worried.

Ruff blinked slowly a few times before she spoke. "Are you gonna get married or are you gonna leave the island?"

"What!" The question was so unexpected and bizarre she forgot her work, forgot the evil smell and just stared at her. It took a moment for her to run the question through her mind and realize she'd not misheard it. "What are you talking about?"

The lanky girl shrugged listlessly. "The way I figure it, those are going to be our only options." She paused, looking suddenly thoughtful. "I suppose we could just leave. We can fly off on our dragons any time we want."

Astrid was still utterly confused by her friend's words. "I don't get it. Why should we leave? Or get married?"

"At least I think I can," Ruffnut muttered, seemingly distracted by her own thoughts. "Bjalki wouldn't mind. Bjarki, though, she'd go loopy without Tuff in a day or two." Her expression darkened. "Stupid twiddlescattered rat muncher."

"Ruffnut," Astrid said patiently.

"It's sickening, really. You'd think he was another Zip lizard the way she moons over him.

"Ruuuuuff!"

"I tried to get Bjalki to do something about it, but he'd rather pretend it isn't happening. I even tried to explain to him how embarrassing it is, but I think he's just laughing it up. Sometimes..." She focused on the shorter girl, a look of dire seriousness on her narrow face. "... I wonder about those two."

Astrid took a breath to shout and wound up letting it go as a bewildered grunt. "Wait, wait. You talk to your dragon?"

Ruffnut inexplicably went back to working her pelt into the horrible smelling vat with her large stick. "Of course."

Astrid smirked, unwilling to fall for one of her friend's strange jokes. "Really. And he understands you, does he?"

"Sure." A half-hearted nod. "Uh huh. At least I think he does." She stopped plunging her deer skin a moment and looked up. "You have to understand, Astrid." She pointed a slim finger at her own head. "Zipples ain't right."

With a sigh Astrid gave up on the dragon question and went back to the one of importance to her. "So why should we leave?"

Now she got an incredulous look, as thought she were the one talking crazy. "What, you don't remember what Freygerd told us when we were little girls?"

She nearly slapped her forehead in frustration but reconsidered after remembering the caustic mess with which they were covered. "Freygerd told us a lot of things. What, specifically, are you talking about?"

"About the tribes." When Astrid didn't respond, the other girl added, "Before the dragons." When there still was no reaction, she impatiently spelled it out. "The tribes used to marry their kids off to each other to make alliances and stuff."

Astrid frowned as she did, indeed, remember those stories. She hadn't thought of them in years.

"When Spitelout and Gobber find the other tribes, I figure we'll either start fighting 'em, or start marrying 'em. Maybe both. So either we marry someone here, before that happens, or we plan on getting hauled off to some other island, married to some dolt we've never met before." She went back to pounding her pelt to the bottom of the vat.

Astrid hadn't considered this aspect of making contact with one of the other tribes. She didn't know what upset her most; that she would have to marry someone before she wanted, that she might not get to choose who she married, or that she might have to leave Berk and her family behind.

"You don't really think Stoick would do that, do you?"

Without looking up from her stinking work she replied, "Tuff asked my dad last night. He didn't say it right out but he kinda hinted at it, while he was looking right at me." She rammed the heavy stick into the vat a few times, probably imagining someone's head taking the pounding instead of the deer hide. "Tuff was all excited, of course. He never could find any girl in Berk who could stand being around him." Suddenly her head came up. "Except Herdis." She looked at Astrid. "Don't tell him, but I think Herdis might have a crush on him."

She didn't care about Herdis' crush. All she could think about was the possibility she might have to leave everything she cared about. "But what about our families?" Just saying that much put an ache in her gut. How could Stoick send her away?

Ruffnut responded with only a shrug. Then she tipped her head toward the village in general. "You know you've got no shot at Twigs now."

Astrid glared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Come on. Hiccup's the son of the chief. Stoick will marry him off to some other leader's daughter. Nothing Twigs can do." A grin crossed her thin lips. "His fate is sealed. His wife will have to be some girl from a powerful family, with ... whatever you call it. Pride. Honor. Money." She gave a vague wave of her hand. "Stuff."

She should have thought of this. The ache in her middle clenched into a hard, bitter knot. She should have seen this coming. Ending the war with the dragons had made life in Berk much better. She should have known there would be a price for her happiness. She was a guardian of her village, she had an amazing companion in Folkvardr and she had time enough to figure out what her next goal should be.

But meeting up with another Viking tribe would endanger all that. Ruffnut was right. The traditions that had worked for many connected tribes didn't work for Berk, cut off by dragons from the rest of the world. For generations those traditions had been ignored by the chiefs as unworkable. Villagers were allowed to marry as they wanted. Skills were learned by those who showed promise. Certainly some things were mandated. Kabbi had wanted to be a fisherman, but when his father produced only one child it was understood he would have to take up his family's trade of tanning and teach everyone else the basic skills.

Where would she wind up? There was no telling, now. There was no time to refigure how to approach Hiccup again, perhaps get him to open up once more and show the promise the battle had brought out in him. Leave her family? Leave Berk? Leave everyone and everything she knew and loved?

And what about Folkvardr? Would she be allowed to keep him? Or would that be stripped away like everything else?

Marry or leave. Who could she possibly marry? Those on Berk who were her age made for reasonably good friends. But as a husband? She couldn't think of one she wouldn't eventually take a hammer to. Not one of them would see her for who she was, would want to create a family as a partnership and not as a duty or a right. There were none who would see her value as a person, an equal.

Except Hiccup.

Like a torch suddenly lit in a darkened house, she saw it for the first time, truly understood it.

It was always 'except Hiccup.' Everyone knew their place; everyone had useful skills, and everyone fit in.

Except Hiccup.

Everyone had known killing dragons was the only way to protect all that was good and meaningful; that any response to the presence of a dragon other than brandishing a weapon was wrong minded, weak and unsuited for Viking life.

And there was no one who had ever worked as hard to gain Astrid's trust, tried to make her see the world in a new way or showed her that changes could make her life better except...

Except the one person who would apparently be married to some complete stranger, a girl from a foreign tribe who had status and would probably never see Hiccup for who _he_ really was; a girl who would almost certainly make his life unbearable. If she were a true Viking, a fierce shield maiden that saw the world the way Berk had a year ago, she would inevitably wind up hating Hiccup, hating everything Berk now had: peace, with dragons and with itself.

Astrid heard the sound of large wings approaching and looked up, hopeful for one instant that it would be the person she now wanted most to talk to. But it was Asgeirr carrying Snotlout and a deer carcass.

Definitely not the one she wanted to talk to.

The large Nightmare came in to a gentle landing. Before he touched the ground, he tossed the doe in his talons forward and caught it by one leg in his snout. Thus unimpeded, he settled firmly to the ground, pressing his chest flat to allow Snot to dismount without jumping. As his rider swung one leg over the dragon's neck saddle, Asgeirr carefully dropped the deer to the grass. He turned his head to watch the young Viking, giving him a soft huff of breath in his face. Snotlout gave him an affectionate rub along his jowls before turning his attention to the young women before him.

There wasn't much of a breeze blowing so it was a moment before the newcomer got the full effect of their work. Snotlout tried to suppress his shudder of disgust but failed. He did at least manage to act as though such unpleasantness was of no consequence to him. He strolled right up to them with a hearty if somewhat strained, "Hey girls, what's cooking?"

"Sheep brains and dragon dung, of course," Ruffnut answered calmly. "Want some? It'll make a real Viking out of you."

Astrid smiled despite herself. Behind the new arrival, she noticed Asgeirr had moved back a bit and settled into the grass. The lounging dragon seemed not to care one bit about the smell that wafted around Kabbi's small house. She recalled the first time she'd been to the master tanner with her Nadder in tow. Folkvardr hadn't seemed to notice the smell, either.

For some reason that thought brought to mind the first question she'd asked Kabbi at her first tanning lesson. She'd wanted to know if dragon skins were good for anything. "Don't know," the old man had admitted. "Never been able to cure one properly. They always rot."

That memory vanquished the humor she'd felt a moment ago and put her back in an unsettled frame of mind. Thoughts of marriage and what amounted to banishment from Berk returned to whirl around in her head in a dark, unhappy cloud. Snotlout's presence only highlighted the new problem.

"But I already am a real Viking." He pointed to himself, grinning confidently. "And I have all the makings of a great hero." He then pointed to Asgeirr. "With an awesome dragon." He drew his finger down to the deer lying on the grass. "And with awesome hunting skills. That's just the one he didn't eat. We actually got three this afternoon."

They all looked at the dead deer on the ground before the Nightmare. Its neck was obviously broken and it had no other noticeable injuries. Ruffnut turned a sly expression toward Snotlout. "'We' got three?"

The teenaged boy turned wary. "Yeah. We."

She pointed toward the carcass in the grass. "Old Smokey got that one, eh?"

Snotlout knew the game and tried his best to avoid it. He waved a dismissive hand toward the deer and muttered, "Uh huh." He turned his attention, and his most charming smile, toward Astrid while doing his best to ignore the reek of the skin draped across the log. "So Astrid, what are you doing tonight?"

"Washing," she replied briskly. She returned to scraping the hair off the stinking hide.

"How many did _you_ get, Snotty?" The mocking tone Ruffnut used was amazingly similar to the one he had used with Hiccup on many occasions. He ignored her.

"Want any help?" He waggled an eyebrow at her surprised expression.

"Did you get anyyyyy?" Ruff's teasing had achieved momentum now. She was determined to get a response.

Astrid's mood was not improved by Snotlout's poor attempt at flirting. "Washing clothes," she clarified. "And yes, I could use a hand. Father's trousers always need extra scrubbing to get the sea salt out of them."

Snot blinked in dismay at having his advances turned aside so easily. "Well, I uh," he stammered.

"Maybe they were invisible deer!" Ruffnut chuckled, leaning on her pounding stick.

Flinging off the collected hair and filth from the drawknife toward Snotlout's feet, Astrid added, "Or you could do mother's linens. And the bed furs need to be washed before they get put away for the season. Take your pick." She started scraping again.

"Hey!" Ruffnut sang out in sudden glee. "Who do you think he'll be forced to marry?"

"Marry?" The young man's expression turned to complete shock.

With a grim smile and another fling of the drawknife toward Snot's boots, Astrid calmly answered, "Some ugly wench with the brains of a seagull."

The other girl chortled. "Nah, he'd like that too much. I'll bet he winds up with a flesh and blood Valkyrie who can outfight him, outhunt him and can drink him under the table any night of the week!"

He was clearly baffled by this turn of the conversation. While he struggled to find a way to respond, Astrid muttered loudly, "That does sound perfect for him, doesn't it?"

Conversation abruptly stopped and four sets of eyes looked up as another pair of wings could be heard approaching. Astrid's mood lifted a moment as she recognized the outline of Berk's only Night Fury against the early evening sun. She watched as the black dragon smoothly circled the small clearing by Kabbi's house. When Toothless had come down low enough to make his landing he did so with his usual diving drop, flicking his tail in an arc and lowering his front legs to land like a cat jumping down from a table.

She blinked uncertainly after the Fury had touched down. As they landed, for an instant, it looked like part of Toothless' flying rig had come undone, separating near his hind legs. At least one line and maybe two went curling away from wherever they had been attached to dangle from a spot just under the base of the dragon's tail. Neither dragon nor rider seemed concerned, however. She made a mental note to mention it before they took off again, just in case it was something they hadn't noticed.

Hiccup's landing changed the mood around the tanner's work area. Ruffnut looked interested, as though something she'd been enjoying was about to get better. Snotlout seemed to have been caught somewhere between annoyance and relief. Astrid was glad to see him but was worried she might not get a chance to talk to him alone. She was also uncertain there was anything she could say to him, considering what Ruff had just told her.

The chief's son dismounted with a well practiced roll of his hips and a lifting of his prosthetic to avoid dragging the metal limb against Toothless' side. He landed solidly and came toward them, spying a stone in his path in time to adjust his stride and avoid it. As he approached them Toothless moved closer to Asgeirr and touched noses with the larger dragon. They growled quietly to each other a moment before the Fury settled in the grass.

To Astrid's eyes Hiccup looked as uncertain as she felt. His eyes had met each of theirs in turn, but only briefly. Oddly, his expression seemed much more like it had always been before he'd tamed his dragon; to each of them he seemed to respond with varying levels of subdued nervousness.

His mouth drew down as he got close enough to get the full effect of their efforts and the foul fluids in which they worked. He squinted and turned his head fruitlessly as he quietly greeted them with, "Hey guys."

Ruffnut's casual, "Hiccup" came the same instant as Snotlout's tense, "Hey." Astrid deliberately put a measure of warmth in her voice as she followed with, "Hello Hiccup."

Berk's reluctant hero waved a hand at the evidence surrounding them. "I was going to ask how you're doing but I think I can guess."

"Heh, yeah." Astrid's response seemed to jump from her mouth without her permission. She noticed the meaningful look Ruff was giving her as well as the disapproval evident in Lout's eyes. She decided she didn't care and even added, "Out for an evening flight?"

"Uh," he hesitated, looking back at Toothless. He seemed to want some input from that quarter but the dragon just stared back, ear fins up and pupils wide. "Practice, actually," he finally answered.

"Practice?" Clearly Snotlout found that hard to believe. "Practice what? Herding sheep from the air?"

Toothless uttered a warbling growl, loud enough for them to all hear. The large yellowish green eyes watched them. Astrid thought it strange that Hiccup once again stared at his dragon a moment, as though considering something. Even stranger was the curious look Asgeirr gave the Fury, as though it too was puzzled by the outburst.

"No, flying." Hiccup didn't respond to Lout's gibe. "I made some changes to the control rig." He turned his eyes to the ground, another habit the old Hiccup used to have. "I want to be sure its safe before we rely on it."

To her relief Snotlout decided he'd had enough. "Sounds exciting," he drawled, "but I need to get my deer home and I gotta find Jaspin. I haven't tagged him in two days."

Before he could turn away Astrid remembered something she'd heard in the great hall only days before. "What are you doing with him?"

He looked genuinely confused. "Training, of course."

"By threatening his dragon?"

The gaze of three Vikings and two dragons suddenly rested firmly on him, yet he seemed unconcerned. He made a dismissive noise. "Not for real. That was just to get his attention, get him focused. He needed something to motivate him. I gave it to him. He's swinging steel like he means it now."

He started walking back to his Monstrous Nightmare with a casual, "You kids have fun," thrown over his shoulder. He mounted up and once Asgeirr had snatched up their deer, the two of them were aloft and quickly gone.

Ruff apparently sensed the sudden change between them all and looked at the vat she stood over, the pounding stick slanting out of the dark fluids. "Ech," she groused. "I've had enough of this." She batted at the stick and began walking off toward the village. "Talk to you later," she told them both. Astrid didn't bother telling her she hadn't worked her deer pelt nearly long enough to do a proper job. It wouldn't be the first time the lanky girl had ruined a piece of leather with poor workmanship.

As she passed Astrid she said quietly, "Remember what I said." Then she stopped for a moment. She cast a glance back at Hiccup before she turned her sly eyes toward her again. "Break it to him gentle."

As she walked off, Hiccup turned toward her with a look of bewilderment. "What was that? Break what?"

Astrid shook her head. "Nothing." She made the last few passes with her drawknife to remove the worst of the hair from the deer hide. "So how did your practice go?"

"Good," he answered quietly. "We didn't kill ourselves."

She was starting to get worried. He looked and sounded too much like 'Hiccup before', like he'd never tamed a dragon or saved the whole village from a monster. Before she could say anything he asked, "Is Kabbi around?"

Shaking her head she said, "No, he's off on bucket detail." Another distasteful aspect of being a tanner was having to collect the sheep brains and animal dung that Ruffnut had mentioned earlier. When she'd asked Kabbi at the beginning of her training how anyone had ever come up with the idea of making the curing concoction out of such revolting ingredients, he'd frowned and replied, "I don't know, but I curse 'em every day."

"Ah," was his quiet response. He bit at his upper lip a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, "Uh, Astrid, I need to talk to you."

She paused in the act of removing her deer hide from the skinning log. Through all of last winter he'd mostly found reasons _not_ to talk to her. She'd come to understand that he was dealing with several things to which he was entirely unaccustomed: a level of respect and acceptance from his fellow villagers, the public attentions of other dragon riders and a certain amount of appreciation for the new work he was doing in Gobber's forge.

His nervous approach now, however, was not likely connected to any of those things. So she had to wonder what he wanted to say and why he'd chosen now to say it. The only thing that came immediately to mind was what Ruffnut had just mentioned. And she didn't know if she was ready to discuss that herself. There was an understandable amount of reservation in her voice when she asked, "About what?"

He met her eyes momentarily before turning his gaze once again to Toothless. He seemed to draw some strength or determination from the Fury's presence. "I... I've learned something. It's about..." Once again his gaze dropped to the ground before him. It was starting to bother her when she could so easily remember the change that had come over him last autumn.

"About-," she prompted him.

Give the boy credit, he did at least look her in the eyes again when he finally said, "About dragons."

She sighed, exasperated. It was ridiculous. Why would he be all worked up about dragons _now_?

Then her own silent question struck her. Why _would_ he be worked up about dragons now? Judging by his behavior what he'd learned was uncomfortably significant. And considering the last time he had 'learned about dragons' he had changed the whole way of Viking life, the importance of him making another discovery about their reptilian companions could be just as momentous.

But for good or bad?

Hiccup's demeanor did not encourage optimism. She felt her stomach tighten up again, as it had with Ruff's news.

"What is it, Hiccup?" The dread was obvious in her voice.

"They're..." He suddenly looked anguished, as though he was uncertain of the wisdom of speaking the words that wanted out of him so badly. "They're not..."

Toothless gave them both a mild start by moving up behind his rider. The sleek black body that so dwarfed Hiccup's moved with astonishing stealth when the dragon wanted to. Hiccup looked up at his best friend, a distraught expression painfully plain on his face. The Fury stood beside him, his head at a level with Hiccup's eyes, and gazed placidly at him. The faintest crooning could be heard coming from the deep, powerful chest. The large yellowish-green eyes blinked slowly, once and twice. Toothless leaned his snout a bit closer and brushed the top of the boy's head with the tip of his nose. The dragon then leaned back, sat down and crooned again.

Hiccup's expression cleared. Taking whatever strength he'd needed from the dark dragon, he turned once more to Astrid. "They're not what we think they are."

She didn't really know what to say. Could he express himself no better than that? She remembered something, a time and an event she would never forget as long as she lived.

"You said that once before, you know."

He blinked, apparently not getting the response he'd expected. Then he, too, remembered. "Yes, I know." He looked up at Toothless once more, but only briefly. "But we're still wrong. We still don't understand them, not really. I've..." Again that hesitation. "I've learned how to talk to Toothless. Dragons... can talk."

Ruffnut's claim of speaking to her dragon came rushing back to her and her first impulse was to slap Hiccup. Somehow that twisted twin had coaxed him into perpetuating the 'talking to dragons' joke. She restrained herself from long habit. She'd grown up often wanting to smack the junior Haddock for being a general nuisance.

Then she realized he was completely serious and once again she didn't know what to say. Worse, Hiccup just stared, apparently unprepared for her lack of response.

A new thought came to her, one that made her very uncomfortable. Hiccup was trying to change things again, and the last change he'd caused was going to force her to leave her home and family. He was directly responsible for what Ruffnut had just told her. She knew it certainly hadn't been his intention, but that was the biggest complaint most people in Berk had about him. The results of his actions were almost never the ones anyone wanted, Hiccup included. She was annoyed at how quickly the old anger rose up in her. She kept it in check but couldn't keep it from coloring her tone.

"Hiccup, why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

Astrid flung an impatient gesture toward Toothless. "Acting like there's a problem with the dragons."

"What do you mean 'acting'? There _is_ a problem with the dragons."

She had to admit, he sounded convinced of whatever it was he was trying to tell her. But it still stank almost as much as her newly cleaned deer skin.

"Isn't it enough that you changed the whole village? The whole world?" Thoughts of being dragged off to discover that world beyond Berk as an unwilling bride stirred more anger in her heart. The sarcasm leaped from her tongue, worthy of Hiccup himself. "You fixed everything. Can't you just let it be now?"

Hiccup sputtered for a moment. "Nothing's fixed," he finally replied. "Everything's still broken. And I'm afraid it's going to get worse."

Worse? Did he already know what Ruffnut had told her? Did he fear being matched up with someone he could never love? Did he dread the idea of a marriage that would seem like a punishment?

So why in Odin's name hadn't he come to her sooner, said something?

Did he even have anything to say to her? The hard, dull ache in her middle suddenly grew cold and sharp, like a sword of ice piercing her. She drew a large breath, opened her mouth and surprised herself with what came out.

"Well, I'm sure you can figure it out. You're the smartest Viking in Berk." She gestured once again toward the Night Fury. "You've got the smartest dragon in existence. Between the two of you..." She ran out of words, just completely ran out.

With a careless toss she slung her deer hide over a drying rack. It landed crooked and no doubt Kabbi would berate her for leaving it to form annoying wrinkles. At that moment she simply didn't care.

She headed back toward the village, wishing desperately Folkvardr was there so she could go that much faster. She managed no more than two steps.

"Astrid!"

Now he finds his voice, she fumed to herself, although there was entirely too much desperation in it for her taste. She stopped.

He moved, taking a somewhat clumsy sidestep that his iron leg didn't encourage. He raised a hand toward her as though he might touch her. She truly didn't know how she felt about that.

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

She'd heard far more than she wanted, as far as she was concerned. "I heard everything you said."

That was obviously not the answer he wanted. He pressed his point.

"Astrid, I can talk to Toothless." He seemed to reconsider that statement and tried again. "All dragons can talk." Now he seemed to be frustrating himself. He tried once more. "Astrid, dragons are people!"

She was entirely unprepared for the rush of contradictory emotions that coursed through her at those words. It was obvious Hiccup was projecting his desires onto the dragons he'd risked his life to liberate. The Night Fury, being the most intelligent version of the species, no doubt gave him reason to make such a statement. She could even see the appeal of the idea. Folkvardr had often surprised her in small ways with what he could do and what he seemed to understand of his rider.

But the idea was simply ludicrous. Dragons were animals, not people; dangerous flying animals with a capacity for loyalty and affection that had not been seen until recently, but animals nonetheless.

It had been a rough evening and this did not look to improve things. Astrid sighed quietly. She looked down at her hands and realized she'd not cleaned them. She went to the water trough Kabbi kept for general cleaning. Next to it was a bucket of fine sand. She wet her hands and arms and scooped sand over them to scrub the filth from her skin.

"Astrid?" Quietly, worriedly.

She rinsed the sand off and stood, facing him. His expression was hard to take. This was obviously important to him, but she was in no shape to argue with him. She lifted her dripping hands a moment in resignation. "I'm sorry." She turned once more and began the walk home.

"Astrid!" Desperation again. Maybe fear. She had always hated that tone in his voice. She kept walking. "I can prove it!"

It was too much. Memories rose up, one after another; failed experiments, too many to count, that damaged houses or nearly caused significant injuries; the apologies, the promises to do better, to be more like a real Viking; the dragon training and his unfathomable successes; his effortless actions and seemingly unintended victories.

She remembered his sudden exposure and the unbelievable evidence that he'd discovered about their perpetual enemies. She recalled the truly amazing change that had given her hope that he would no longer be the bane of Berk's existence.

But then came the quick slide back to hesitant speech, shy glances and infuriating silences.

And now this. He wanted to push an idea that dragons were something they obviously couldn't be. What possible reason could he have for wanting to behave like this? What did he stand to gain? And why now, when she'd just learned her whole world was likely to be taken apart and reformed in ways she would probably hate? Why heap this nonsense on her now?

The anger coiled within her like a living thing. It was a familiar feeling, one she now hated. Disgust and anger at Hiccup was supposed to be a thing of the past, and here he was rekindling it with foolish notions that would appeal to both of them.

Gritting her teeth, she turned to him. She could only guess at the look she wore but Hiccup's reaction said it was full of dire warning. She tried to frame a sentence, a few words. All she could manage was to stab a finger in his direction and breathe his name with strained fury.

"I mean it. We can show you." He turned to his dragon.

"Stop it!" The words were an enraged shriek yet she could hear the dismay in them. "You keep tearing everything apart! Nothing's ever good enough for you, you have to keep changing everything! Why can't you just..."

She was shocked to realize the words 'disappear' and 'be normal' were flickering among her thoughts. Worse, the words 'die' and 'love me' were woven in among them as well. Her emotions were becoming dangerously out of control. If she didn't leave now she didn't know what she might do. She turned away and walked as fast as she could. He stopped her again when she was certain nothing in the world could keep her there.

"Look, if you don't believe me, ask Folkvardr!"

That was just utterly unfair. To bring her dragon into this childish argument about animals being people was the only thing left that could keep her there and he used it. He reached right in to the center of her heart, found the one spark of joy that came from outside herself and latched onto it, trying to change it, to force it into something she couldn't handle or understand.

She was starting to think she might hate Hiccup for the rest of her life.

"Please Astrid!" He was relentless. "I had to come to you. You were the only one who would listen the first time, the only one who knew besides me. You believed in me when no one else possibly could." Each sentence got quieter. She began to understand he wasn't doing what she'd thought he was. "I would have failed without you. I needed... I needed you to believe in me and you did. I had to help the dragons but I couldn't do it alone."

She wavered as it sank in. It was happening again. Hiccup was going to change the world once more. He'd had no choice the last time he'd confided in her, and she hadn't wanted his confidence at the start. But she'd come to see he was right. Now he seemed to believe they were at the same point again. And she had no idea where it would go this time, where it would end. Dragons were people? Could it really be true?

"Please." Hollow, a tired, worried voice that begged for help. Her wrath cooled as quickly as it had built. "It's important, really important."

It was so overwhelming. She tried to say something, managed only, "I don't-"

"He's a person. He has a language." He looked up at the Fury. "I can't speak it, but we found a way to write it. He can talk to me with writing. He scratches symbols in the dirt." He looked back to her. "That's something people do, isn't it? People can write."

She couldn't walk away. He'd been right, last autumn. He'd given her an amazing new friend. He'd given her a new life, a chance to be the guardian she'd wanted to be.

Then he asked a question that tugged at her heart so hard she could feel it rise in her throat.

"Won't you at least give Folkvardr a chance to talk to you?"

* * *

Late the next morning, Two Hearts was dozing on his favorite rock, a few lengths from the shore. He was newly washed, the dust and dirt of many days spent on the ground left behind in the cool waves. He was also tired; after washing he had spent much time flying in that same water to exercise his wings. It had been Featherstone's suggestion that when he couldn't fly and he wanted to stretch his wings that he take to the ocean and treat it as the heaviest of air. His rider taught him the trick of slowly exhaling while under the surface to keep water from entering his nose, and it had worked. He'd also come to greatly enjoy it. The idea of being able to hunt roundbacks in their own home had seemed exciting but he quickly found he was far too large and slow to catch them.

The sun was drying him well and he'd napped lightly, once or twice opening his eyes to slits as a gull would screech at him. He opened them once more as a thick shadow passed over him. A two-throated growl, brusque yet respectful, came to him. He barked a short response.

Once the splitneck had settled and folded its wide wings it took a moment to examine its surroundings. Two Hearts waited, knowing splitnecks were not Kin to be rushed. The two minds within its separate heads had to decide which would speak first and what each would say. Conversations with them were often difficult.

"We greet First Hunter," said the female head, distinguishable by the slightly rounder curve of the horn on its snout. The bulbous head on the end of the sinuous neck bobbed a few times, after which the male head added, "We are Cloudbiter. We seek him."

"I greet you, Cloudbiter. What is it you need of me?"

It was silent several moments. It seemed agitated and scented slightly of fear. He felt his liver chill just a bit.

"We see, we speak," said the female.

"Stonebelly. Much curiosity. Much fear," came from the male.

"Questions. Confusion. Fear." The female again. The splitneck was obviously bothered by something. It was having far more trouble than normal speaking. The clipped speech was the way they spoke when they suffered inner turmoil.

"What was the stonebelly's name?"

Another long wait as it tried to answer.

"There was no name. There was only fear." The other head added, "Warning."

The chill in his liver grew. "What warning?"

"Flee," said both sides in unison. The female continued. "It said Kin must flee."

"Why?" Now he was starting to sound as abrupt as the splitneck.

"It saw."

"Saw what?"

"Fear," said the male. "It fled," said the female.

This was not helping. "What did the stonebelly say it saw?"

"Something large," said the female. "Something hungry," said the male. Then in unison they said, "Something dead."

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2012

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN: **This took longer than I expected, mostly because it didn't end up the way I expected even though I had it thoroughly planned out. But plans change and I just ran with it.

At this point, however, I have some serious work to do on the overall arc of the third act. I have to get things nailed down better than they currently are. I don't even know what the next chapter is going to focus on yet. So hold on, folks. It may take a while for the next update but I promise I will do my very best to make it worth your while.

Thanks for reading, everyone!


	20. Trial and Error

Broken

Chapter 20: Trial and Error

She woke with a dull ache in her stomach and a slightly sharper pain behind her eyes. Her mouth tasted like damp wool, an unwanted reminder of her desperation the night before. She needed no reminders of her past behavior or her future dilemmas. Unfortunately the present, though quiet and dark and peaceful enough, was no fit shelter from her anxious thoughts and memories.

The tiny window that faced the west let in just enough of the morning's breaking light that she could see most of her small room and its contents. She glanced at the floor, easily locating the object she expected. Glaring balefully at the clay pitcher carefully set by the door, she told herself she would never again use ale to help her get to sleep.

What annoyed her far more than the expected results of using drink to still her mind was the overwhelming need she'd had for it. The thoughts that had chased each other through her mind had driven her where even the worst battle never had: into hiding. And, as she'd feared, the effect had not lasted beyond her fitful hours of sleep. As soon as she'd opened her eyes to the sound of some far off dragon giving voice to the morning sun, the same thoughts had resumed their ceaseless march through her head.

Dragons are people.

For an instant, she wanted to curse Hiccup. Yet even that felt as false and fruitless as all the justifications she'd given herself the previous evening. The mantra she'd unconsciously taken up shielded her no better against him than it did against the dragons. Telling herself that she'd had no way to know the truth did no more to lay the blame on Hiccup than it did to excuse her past actions. 'I didn't know,' was nothing more than a coward's way to defend what went before. She had to face a future that contained challenges she feared she might fail. And Astrid hated failure above all.

Well, almost all. Waking up from a sleep brought on by deliberately drinking too much ale was currently at the top of the list.

The pitcher was empty. It had done its job. Now the sun was up and she had her own job to attend. But it was a job she had no idea how to do. Learning to use a bow instead of an axe had been hard but manageable. Learning to live with dragons instead of killing them had been interesting and difficult in ways she'd never suspected but still she had found a way to succeed. This new change, however, was making a mockery of too many of the important things she believed about herself and her world.

The dragon in the distance sounded off again, making her realize she was stalling. It was time to move, time to act. Her stomach gave voice to its separate concerns, almost as if answering the Zippleback that was challenging the dawn. Reflexively she fell back to her morning routines, using the comfort of those normal behaviors to ease both her mind and her body. It might last only until she stepped outside, but by then she would be closer to being prepared for whatever the day brought her.

She exchanged her thin linen sleeping shift for her usual wool and leather garments. She pushed aside the old blanket that separated her small room under the stairs from the rest of the main room. The hearth had only a small cook fire going, the steaming porridge of her parent's breakfast filling the air with its tempting aroma. A bit of honey and a handful of the sweet red berries that could be found inland had been added and took her mind off things she couldn't solve. Hunger, at least, she could handle.

Her mother was sitting outside. The first rays of easterly light were giving her skin and hair a glow that did much to ease what years of hard living had done to her. She turned and gave her daughter a smile full of warmth and affection. The thin scar on her upper lip twisted the expression just slightly but years of familiarity with the sight dispelled the effect to Astrid's eyes.

Neither her father nor her dragon was in sight. Hallfrid Hofferson had said he would be taking his turn out on one of the fishing boats so she wasn't surprised by his absence. She had been surprised, and distressed, by his request that she send Folkvardr out to follow the fleet and imitate the efforts of Jaspin's Bitequick so they might have a larger catch. Coming on the heels of Hiccup's revelation about the true nature of dragons as it did, she found herself unable to form a meaningful answer. She had shrugged uncomfortably and turned her face away to hide the confusion and unhappiness she felt she must be showing. "I'll see what I can do," was all she'd been able to promise.

She didn't know where her Nadder was but it was likely he was lounging in the sturdy wooden lean-to her family had built behind the house. While certainly not a lazy dragon, Folkvardr would often rest as late into the morning as his rider would let him. Unless hunger drove him out to go hunting, of course.

Astrid finished her porridge while her mother worked on a dyed woolen cloak trimmed with rabbit fur. It was to be a gift to Spitelout from Halla. They talked a bit, exchanging village gossip and discussing family plans. The idea of locating other Viking tribes and beginning trade had gotten her father to encourage her mother to consider the idea of using her skills at making clothes to earn a better living. To her dismay that reminded her of Ruffnut's warning about the consequences of meeting other clans. Between the effects of the ale, the Thorston girl's news and Hiccup's surprise, her morning porridge failed to calm her stomach.

She excused herself, wiped out the bowl and put it away. It was time; delaying further would accomplish nothing. Her legs felt wooden as she moved down the steps and around to the back of the house. She almost hoped Folkvardr wouldn't be there in his stall. Even a few more hours might help her prepare for what she had to do.

There was no disguising that folly, though. She'd never run from a fight and she wouldn't start now. Granted that this would not be any form of combat, it still promised to be as difficult as if the large reptile she sought would attack her on sight. She leaned a hand against the side of the house for one last moment, gathering her courage. It needed to be done and she'd waited too long as it was. It was best to get it over with, whatever the results.

He was there, his legs and wings folded and his belly pressed to the ground. His head was tipped forward and the end of his snout nearly met the packed earth. He roused at the sound of her scuffing footsteps. The gleaming eyes opened and the head rose upward quickly, birdlike.

Folkvardr greeted her with his usual display of stretching and fluttering of cramped wings. He chittered and chortled at her amicably, nudging her shoulder once. Astrid rubbed her hands along the fleshy jowls, scratching here and there. She avoided the large open nostrils and the wide set eyes; the dragon was sensitive about being touched in those areas. She caressed the wide tip of his snout up to the great curving horn that arched over the top of his head and smiled at him.

"How are you this morning, you handsome fellow? Are you hungry?"

To her own ears the words she spoke sounded somewhat hollow and strained. She didn't know if her disquiet was showing on her face or if the Nadder even paid attention to such details. But she tried to reassure herself that this was still her dragon, her friend.

Her friend? That thought stilled her hands and she stared at the large beast before her. Folkvardr seemed unchanged to her eyes, regardless of what Hiccup had said. She couldn't help but think of him as an animal as he nosed her clothes gently, perhaps looking to see if she'd brought him a treat of dried mutton as she sometimes did. How could Folkvardr be a person when he acted much the same as a cat or a sheep? He was unfocussed, interested only in what sight and smell could tell him. Could there truly be deeper thoughts working their way through his large, domed skull?

Astrid found herself wondering if it was only the Night Fury that could give the impression of intelligence. That one was special, no doubt. None of the other, more common dragon species could match it in sheer cleverness or raw intuition. She had suspicions that Hiccup may have even influenced the black dragon's behavior in that regard.

But he'd been so insistent. He'd even challenged her, daring her to discover the truth for herself. And Astrid had never let a challenge like that go unanswered.

As she stared at the multicolored scales that ranged across Folkvardr's wide, round face, she realized she didn't want to answer that challenge. She really didn't want dragons to be people.

If her Nadder was a person, how could she face him knowing she'd tried so many times to gain glory and recognition by killing him? How could she talk to him when she regularly sat astride his shoulders and rode him like an animal? She couldn't reconcile the two views. How could she be around him at all, after all the things that had gone between them? Before the battle or after, she'd not treated him like a person at all, and if he was truly a person...

Guilt was not an emotion she was used to feeling. She didn't like it, despite caring for Folkvardr very much.

Astrid had stared at him so long his eyes had started to droop and his head to lower. He's not being fed or exercised so he's bored, she realized. He's like a cat, interested only in things that immediately stimulate him. The dragon was an animal and that was that. Hiccup was simply wrong.

And she would prove it.

With a sly smile crossing her face, she rubbed Folkvardr's scaly muzzle to bring him back to wakefulness. The eyes opened and he chirruped quietly. She cleared her throat.

"Folkvardr," she said slowly and distinctly, "can you understand what I'm saying to you?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't answer, according to Hiccup. Dragons didn't have the mouth or throat for it. But he did react. And that was just as bad.

Her dragon stopped moving and just stared at her. Nadders were birdlike in many respects and one of the strongest comparisons was their nearly constant motion. They almost never held still.

Several long moments of silence slid by and still he didn't move. It was eerie. She didn't know what to make of it. Was there something else that had caught his attention? She turned to look behind her, but they were alone. Turning back to him, she felt her stomach protest slightly. She had to press on, had to know.

"Can... can you understand me?" Her words were barely more than a whisper.

He turned his large head and brought one eye to bear on her face. That eye, framed below by jutting teeth and above by the curve of his forehorn, bore into hers. The slitted pupil moved only slightly as it studied her face.

Astrid felt the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rise in alarm at the sudden and unexpected change in her dragon's behavior. Her eyes went wide as the implication of what this meant became clear.

"Folk," she said softly, worried at what she had started with a single sentence.

He spoke. Not as a person, but as a dragon. The growling and chirping had an entirely different tone to it, one she'd not heard before. It went on for a time, the sounds as varied and complex as what would come out of the mouths of Vikings.

This was not her dragon. This was some new creature she'd never seen or heard, one she'd never imagined. Her stomach clenched hard and she felt faintly ill. A hundred thoughts crowded into her head, most of them starting with 'why'. One repeated itself several times: why did Hiccup always have to be right?

Astrid took a step back, needing distance between herself and this new... entity. She took a second step, her heel catching on the threshold of the shelter. She stumbled but years of training kept her from falling on her rump. Without thinking she folded her off leg under her and threw her arms out and down. She ended up in an awkward squat, off balance but able to thrust herself back up if she needed to. Her mental state as uncertain as her physical, she remained as she was. This time, Folkvardr took the initiative.

The Nadder took a single step forward, his body partly emerging from the simple lean-to. Then he sat down once more, his legs and wings folded. He fixed her with a single eye and began to 'speak' again. There were sounds she'd never heard him make; hisses and clicks and chuffing rumbles from deep within his large but narrow chest.

Eventually, after having apparently given voice to whatever was on his mind, he settled down and once again quietly studied her. He gave a few inquisitive chirps but otherwise was silent. Astrid watched him, turning over what Hiccup had said and comparing it to what Folkvardr had just done. It seemed to her that he did, indeed, understand her words. But with her inability to understand him, she was no closer to truly confirming him as a person. Now that she was faced with that distinct possibility, she knew she would have to get to the truth of it.

She took a deep breath, did her best to push aside her doubts and fears. There was only one meaningful path before her now, one important task that demanded her complete attention. She settled herself comfortably on the ground, trying to figure out how she could accomplish her new goal.

* * *

It was exhausting and frustrating and more than a little frightening at times. Sometimes he would make progress only to find more unexpected obstacles standing in his way. If he hadn't already told Stoick he could succeed, he probably would have given up by now. But Kettlecrack had a point to prove and he meant to prove it. He was certain he was right, certain he could show the whole village his idea would work. Yet he spent most days wondering if he'd ever figure out how.

He'd started out simple. A thick wooden pole stuck in the ground with a cross piece tied at shoulder height had been his training target, much like Mord used with his students. He didn't have any extra armor to clothe his training poles and the boiled leather vest he wore once belonged to his father. Unwilling to risk damaging it in practice, he'd simply draped the poles with his oldest clothes. That did little to give it the appearance of a Viking but it was the best he could manage.

Once he had an appropriate target to work with he found an oak sapling and whittled it down into a serviceable practice sword. It didn't weigh the same as his steel weapon and the balance was horrible. He also had no scabbard in which to carry it. He ignored these problems, telling himself his need for it would be short lived.

Finally, not wanting any spectators gawking at his efforts, he took his wooden sword, his wooden opponent and its cast off clothes and set out for a small field inland. He called to his dragon to follow him.

Grimjaws watched with curiosity as he replanted his target in the soft ground of the grassy meadow. He had to dig deeper for the hole to support the wood but he managed it. Giving the wooden cross a hefty smack with his 'sword' hardly moved it. Draped as it was with an old woolen tunic and topped with a broken wooden bowl for a helmet, he supposed it might possibly be mistaken for a skinny, frozen Viking from a great distance.

Kettlecrack glanced behind him at his Nightmare. The dragon's attention was right where he wanted it; on him. He approached the beast, wooden sword down and trailing its tip in the dirt. Once he was standing before it, he slowly brought it up and held it before its muzzle. It lay across the open palms of his hands. He wanted no mistakes about his intentions for its use. The dragon gave it a perfunctory sniff, already familiar with it. He'd made sure of that, holding it before him every day before he mounted up for flying practice.

Once Grim had been shown the weapon and was paying attention to his owner, Kettlecrack turned and took a few quick strides toward his target. Halfway there, he broke in to a run, lifting the sword high and bellowing his fiercest war cry. He passed it on its left hand side and swung for all he was worth. His aim was true and he hit the target at the 'neck', just below the wooden helmet. The bowl went flying but he ignored it. He came back around, swinging for a devastating cut across the target's upper back. With both feet temporarily planted he was able to land a solid strike. He heard a sharp crack that made him wonder if he'd broken his sword already. But no, the sting in his hands and the ragged hole left where the wood had met and rent the aging wool told him it was the sound of a killing blow.

He laughed, thinking what he could do to the defenders of the first village he attacked even without his dragon. Fighting dragons was hard; they flew, they spat fire and they always outnumbered Vikings. But fighting other Vikings was what Kettlecrack was made for; fighting them, conquering them, perhaps even ruling them. He had what he needed to prove to Stoick the truth of his ideas. All he needed now was preparation. Grinning, he stepped back from the target and ran around to its right side, taking a running stab at its belly. The pointed tip of his sword slid into the weakened garment easily enough and the sideways motion as he ran past caused another gaping hole to appear. He hooted with pride and made a huge two handed downward cut to the nearest arm, smashing the cross pole so hard it dipped low on that side.

Again and again he ran in circles around his target, striking and yelling, stabbing and shouting until he was out of breath and needed to rest. He turned toward his dragon, panting and grinning. Once more he laid his wooden sword across his palms and slowly approached Grimjaws. The pale glowing eyes watched him carefully. He stopped before the pointed snout, still breathing heavily. The Nightmare glanced at the oak staff then back to him. He felt he'd made his point.

He stabbed the sword into the ground and went to the basket he'd hidden off to one side of the field. Reaching in, he pulled out a dead eel and walked back toward his dragon. He held it out in front of him to make certain Grim could tell what it was. It didn't take long for the beast to react.

The Nightmare raised itself up on its forelimbs when it realized what he was holding. He stopped then, waiting to see if it would take flight. When it didn't immediately fly away, he took a step toward it. It was both amazing and amusing to see a deadly predator like Grimjaws twitch backward at that simple movement. He felt himself grin as he took another step and his mount twitched once more, a low grunt coming from its throat. He held up the eel and shook it.

"Eel!" he shouted. "Eel!" The luminous eyes, pupils narrowed in alarm, shifted between the offending carcass and his face. He shook his fistful of slimy dragonbane once more and yelled as loud as he could. "Eeeel!" Grimjaws trembled slightly.

He turned and walked to his target. Making certain his dragon was watching, he slowly draped the dead eel around the target's 'neck' and backed away. The Nightmare looked from the target to him several times, obviously uncomfortable with this portion of their training. He pointed to the eel on the target and loudly identified it twice more.

Kettlecrack then demonstrated an apparent hatred for eels on poles draped in Vikings clothes. He ran at his target, swinging his wooden sword with as much ferocity as he had before. This time he concentrated all his blows around its 'neck', crushing the body of the dead eel and spattering himself and the ground with blood and crushed portions of the sea creature.

Once more he held his eel-smashing weapon before him and approached Grimjaws. He was most satisfied with the way the dragon's eyes widened as he got closer. When it crouched as if to take flight Kettlecrack stopped and stabbed its tip into the ground. He grabbed up a handful of grass and used it to scrape the worst of the eel slime off his skin. Slow steps brought him back before his mount, its eyes still wide and its posture showing its discomfort. He let the dragon sniff his hands before he rubbed the underside of its jaws. Once the beast was calm he repeated the whole spectacle, from first to last.

Grim seemed less worried the second time Kettlecrack went about showing his idea of how wooden targets and the eels they wore around their necks should be treated. He even allowed his rider to bring the blood stained wooden sword before him, lying across his open palms as before. He would not sniff at it, however. That wasn't important so he simply jammed its tip into the earth and gave his dragon a long, comforting scratch along his jaws.

The first step had worked so Kettlecrack moved on to the next. He set another eel across the target's shoulders but left it there. He moved to his dragon's side, pointed at the wool-clad poles and shouted, "Eel!"

Nothing happened. His not-so-Monstrous Nightmare simply looked at him.

He pointed again. "Go on, burn it! Eel!"

Grimjaws just huffed at him.

* * *

The only experience she could recall being as frustrating was learning to read.

She'd known the marks on the parchment stood for words and that those words could tell her things when there was no one else near to explain them to her. Runes were the voices of the dead, captured in ink and able to speak to those who could read the marks. But it took a long time for any of it to make sense to her. She'd despaired many times of learning the trick to hearing those voices. Her mother and father had tried to help, but their own skills were not that strong.

In the end it had been the challenge that had driven her to succeed. To stare at a line of intricate scratches knowing what she sought was just within reach would annoy and anger her. But it also drove her. No confusing pattern of lines would deny her. She kept at it for months, burning many candles through many dark nights.

As a result of her determination, Astrid Hofferson could read as well as anyone on the island. Except, perhaps, for Fishlegs or Hiccup.

As hard as that had been, it wasn't nearly as baffling or frustrating as trying to talk to a dragon.

Spring was well under way and most of the planting was done. The few daily chores she faced were finished and she'd told her mother she would be off playing 'catch clouds' with Folkvardr. She'd had to make some excuse; sitting in the dirt outside her Nadder's stall while trying to get him to respond to her words was a sure way to attract the wrong kind of attention. It felt deceitful but Astrid was still so torn about the whole affair she felt she'd rather taint her honor in this small way than be seen as having lost her mind.

That was how they'd wound up on one of the many bluffs that overlooked the ocean, enjoying a brisk sea breeze under a beautiful cloud speckled sky. As nice as their surroundings were Astrid was far from happy. Her efforts to talk to Folkvardr had largely failed. In his stall, before they'd left, she'd started by asking him questions. It was obvious she'd had his attention but his responses were largely meaningless to her. Some things she said he didn't respond to at all. Other things prompted him to chatter and squawk in his own 'language.' But little she did or said brought forth any proof that the Nadder could truly speak.

The only time she could honestly say they had communicated was when she realized they needed to continue their efforts elsewhere. She had rubbed his snout gently and asked, "How about we go flying for a bit?" Folkvardr had immediately stood up, stepped back into his stall and hooked his saddle on one of the teeth that jutted from his lower jaw. He brought it directly to her and dropped it into her waiting hands. He had never done that before and she once again felt a strange tingle along her arms and neck as she considered what it meant.

Since then she'd had no more meaningful response from him than she would from an infant.

"Do you ever feel frightened?"

One loud, sharp burst of screeching was followed by a strange groaning sound.

"Were you scared of the Red Death?"

No answer.

"Where do you like to be scratched most?"

Oddly, Folkvardr stepped back, raised one leg and clawed the air with the wickedly sharp talons of that foot. That was also a first for him so Astrid supposed she could count it as a small victory. She had no idea what it meant to him, though. She tried again.

"Can you speak to the gods?"

He thrashed his tail and bobbed his head once.

Sighing deeply, she leaned forward until her brow touched the tip of his snout. "Folkvardr," she moaned. "What am I doing wrong? Why can't I make this work?" She stroked his bulging jowls, scratching gently. "Am I asking the wrong kinds of questions?" She must have asked her dragon more questions this morning than she'd asked anyone else on the island in the past year. Maybe he didn't feel like talking to her.

That idea prompted a thought. It was a rather unhappy thought and Astrid was suddenly worried what might come of it. She pulled back from her Nadder's muzzle and drew her hands away.

"Folkvardr, do you hate me?"

She was grateful to get no reaction that time. Still, she recalled their time in the training arena, the brutal fights they'd had against each other. She had once smashed him across the head with a shield by swinging the axe in which it had been lodged. She'd also hurled that same axe at his head, though he'd blocked that attack easily. But there were other times when they'd damaged each other. She'd been grazed by tail spikes once, burned slightly on one leg another time. He'd gotten a nick on his leg from her and a shallow rent in one wing during a particularly desperate melee. Could it be her dragon remembered these things and had nothing to say to her?

But if he was unhappy with her, why did he act so well with her? Hunting with him was a real pleasure, flying with him an ecstasy. He'd never acted as if he held any kind of grudge against her. So why wouldn't he talk to her?

Once again she found herself comparing Folkvardr to Hiccup's dragon. Maybe Nadders simply weren't terribly smart as a species. They could be aggressive, protective, vain and a bit flighty, but no one could really call them smart. A new thought occurred to her then. Perhaps dragons were different from each other the same way Vikings were different from each other. Comparing Toothless to Folkvardr could be much like comparing Hiccup to Snotlout. The two boys were both Vikings from the same tribe, related by blood. To judge one by the other, though, would be foolish. Two people could hardly be more different.

If that were the case and her dragon was just an average intellect compared to a Night Fury, then how did one go about speaking to it and getting a useful response? Hiccup had certainly given her the impression it could be done. If he was right then the flaw had to be in her approach. She wasn't giving the Nadder the kind of stimulus he needed to respond to her.

So what would work better? Shorter sentences? Smaller words?

"Hungry?"

He actually seemed to perk up at that, but remained still and quiet.

"Happy?"

No response.

"Tired?"

He jabbered a bit in answer, but no more than that.

"Fly?"

At that instant, they heard the call of a dragon they both knew. It had just lifted from the beach where those few dragons that used the cold waters to clean themselves would go and was lazily soaring back toward the village. To Astrid's amazement, Folkvardr jumped up, chittering and screeching and flapping his wings. The Nadder sidled up to her and squatted down, a clear request for her to get on. When she paused, once more trying to solve the new puzzle her dragon had given her, the Nadder nudged her roughly with its horned snout. Taking the hint, she climbed upon his back. She had just enough time to grip the saddle's handholds before he energetically launched himself and took after the Night Fury and his rider.

* * *

His wooden sword failed him before he ever got to try using it for its true purpose.

In his imagination he'd pictured swooping down out of the sky on Grimjaws and striking fearsome blows with his sword against foes on the ground. He'd decided it was time to put his ideas into practice. He'd gotten onto the Nightmare's back without the dragon balking at the presence of his pretend weapon. He basked in the knowledge that the hardest part of training his dragon for combat was behind him. All he would need from then on was to build on what he had. Although he hadn't yet gotten the dragon to flame his eel-draped target as he'd wanted, Kettlecrack felt sure that once he got Grim to fly past it and he took a solid swing at it the idea would become plain to the creature.

He'd gotten into the air, arms braced hard against the thrust of lifting from the ground to prevent re-injuring his still healing nose and lips. He'd learned to focus his eyes on the back of the dragon's head until they were well off the ground. Once they were flying the gut-twisting fear wasn't so bad, but that first abrupt rise still sent his heart into a panicked shock.

Grimjaws had apparently wanted to go for a casual flight and headed out toward the ocean. Kettlecrack had taken the longer pair of horns in hand and aimed him back toward the target planted in his training field. The dragon had taken direction well enough. Once they were properly aimed and closing in on it, he leaned forward and lifted on the horns to point them toward the ground.

The first pass didn't work. His dragon cleared the target at such a height that he couldn't possibly reach it. He brought him around again and tried to get him to pass lower over the wooden dummy. That had worked, but it was still too high.

Several attempts later, he felt they would be close enough. Exalting in his first deadly strike from dragonback, he swung his wooden sword with all his strength.

Confusion followed, the all too familiar disconnect between what he'd been doing and where he found himself. That meant he had to find the pieces of his world, put them back together and study the picture they made. He hated that he was becoming accustomed to such moments.

He'd missed. Too high, too far to one side or the other; he couldn't tell. His sword had struck _something_, however; something too far into the arc of his swing. But he hadn't hit his target. He'd smashed his oak staff into the side of Grimjaws' head.

There'd been a dreadful sound, an angered shriek that shook him so badly the sky turned green and the ground became blue. But no, that had been Kettlecrack flying through the air as his dragon shook him off. He'd lost his grip on the saddle, lost his sword. He'd flailed, confused, unaware he was falling until he hit the thick grass. Then there was pain, that ever familiar reward for failure. His sword arm hit the ground, smacking his elbow painfully hard and pushing his own hand into his healing face. Either shock would have been bad enough. Both together took his breath away.

Now he finally realized he was staring at grass. It was bent and crushed beneath his cheek. He could see a small beetle moving only a hand's distance from his throbbing nose.

He rolled over, grateful nothing seemed broken from his newest mishap. He tried to sit up and a deep, penetrating ache from some hard impact burned in his neck. He rubbed it, absently realizing it was where Grimjaws' long, hard horn had slammed into him when the dragon knocked him off his back.

He'd hit his own dragon. He hadn't realized the path of his strike would carry his weapon right into the side of the Nightmare's scaly face. Where was the beast?

Looking around, he saw no sign of it.

That was the worst. Failing to connect with his target was nothing new. Falling off his dragon wasn't a novelty, either. Getting hurt while trying to prove a point was almost a monthly occurrence. But losing his dragon was unsustainable. It had taken too long, involved too much work. It had even taken all his money to buy the saddle. And now he had nothing.

Kettlecrack sat in the grass a while, feeling the familiar brew of pain and anger building in his heart. Was he forever destined to be denied his true calling? Would he never have a chance to lead his fellow villagers into battle, to stride into the halls of Valhalla? Perhaps he should build himself a boat and go raiding on his own. He'd probably get himself killed quickly that way, but then at least he'd be able to join battle against some worthy foes and die a glorious death. Surely if he fought hard enough, Odin would notice his efforts and grant him passage.

The idea was starting to take hold in his mind. As usual, however, there was a major stumbling block: he'd never built a boat before and would likely make a botch of the job. He didn't expect Valhalla was populated by many Vikings who'd drowned from incompetent carpentry. Maybe he could take one of the boats in the harbor. A small one, to be sure. Rorik was beached for repairs; perhaps he could manage to get that one into the surf and away before anyone noticed.

He stood, feeling a little dizzy and less than clear headed. He started back toward the village. He had to figure out how to move a ship like Rorik off the beach and into the water by himself. He recalled seeing the moon the night before, noting it was a bit over half full and waning. He had a little over a week before the new moon would let him work in full darkness.

Trudging toward the edge of the field, he stumbled over something. It was his wooden sword. He bent to pick it up. The tip had snapped off, but the rest of it was whole and undamaged. Not that it would do him any good now.

Kettlecrack looked to his right and spotted the target he'd set up. Useless. All his plans had been for nothing. Stoick was right; he couldn't depend on a dragon for battle. The anger welled up once more. The sorry sticks draped with his old damaged clothes mocked his foolish dreams. He clenched his oak weapon harder and gritted his teeth. That set off a fiery wave of pain through his nose and upper lip. And that just fed the anger.

He wasn't a berserker, but for a few moments he felt the all-consuming power take hold of his heart and fill it with fire. Rushing forward, he attacked the target mercilessly, not caring how much the unpadded wood hurt his hands. He slashed and hacked at the poles, wishing it were flesh and steel meeting on a battlefield. The loud crack of wood giving way didn't slow him down, nor did another quarter of his 'sword's length breaking off the end.

Finally the jagged end of the staff caught the old rope holding the cross piece and parted it. The target's 'arms' fell to the ground and he let himself stop moving, willing to consider it a small personal victory. When he turned once more to head home, he got a surprise.

Grimjaws stood before him.

For several moments he looked up at the not-so-Monstrous Nightmare, its red and yellow scales shining in the late afternoon sun. He honestly didn't know what he felt. Was he grateful the beast had returned? Angry it had failed him and destroyed his plans? Confused it had carelessly tossed him off and returned like a repentant child? Neither moved, each eyeing the other warily.

What does it matter, he thought. If he couldn't attack people on the ground and he couldn't get the dragon to fire targets of his choosing, what use was it? It might carry him to where he needed to go, but would it let him mount with steel weapons in hand? Unlikely after this afternoon's doomed exercise in dragon warfare.

A dragon was little more than a dangerous, oversized pet. It might have its uses, but if it couldn't serve as the weapon he needed it to be then he wouldn't have it.

His infamous temper was roused once more. A broken nose, a worthless saddle and a chance for Stoick to declare his ideas of what a true Viking should be as false: that was all the beast had brought him. Grimjaws had made a fool of him, eaten his food, lazed on his roof and contributed nothing he needed. He took a step toward it.

"Begone!"

It just looked at him.

"Worthless lizard!" He held up the shortened wooden sword and pointed it at the dragon. "Fishbreathed flapping fool!" The beast jerked its head back a bit. "Be glad I don't have true steel in my hand! Begone!" He took another step toward it.

Grimjaws watched him closely but did not seem inclined to leave. The fire was building in his belly. He wanted no more of this scaled distraction. It had kept him from getting any closer to his goals with tainted promises. He would be rid of it now, one way or another.

Waving his broken staff he marched toward the Nightmare. "Deceitful worm! Sheep eating coward! Go now before I show you what a true Viking can do!" The closer he got the further Grim reared. Before he got close enough to strike the beast had raised its head as far as it could, looking down on him from its full height. He swung the staff as thought it were a real sword, trying to get it to leave. A quiet growl started, low and stuttering.

"Leave me be! Get!" He swung again and the growl intensified. "Gutless craven! I'll not have you near me!" He thrust with the jagged point of his wooden sword, still not close enough to make contact. The undersized reptile bellowed and was suddenly wreathed in flames, the heat of them enveloping him. "Too late now," he howled.

Kettlecrack took a step closer, looking for that soft spot under the jaws his father had told him Nightmares had. Even a sturdy staff could do damage if it struck in just the right place. He would teach this dragon a lesson it would never forget.

It didn't go the way he wanted, of course. The dragon took a step toward him, closing nearly all the distance between them. The long jaws opened, effectively defending the vulnerable spot he'd wanted. A furious shriek assaulted him the same time the penetrating heat from its bodily flames did. He caught a whiff of burning hair as his triple braided beard began to smolder. Any closer and he would burn or be eaten. He was unarmored, unarmed and entirely at the disadvantage. He had only his rage and a large broken stick. Even now, with his temper high and blood in his eyes, he had to acknowledge it for a foolish attack.

With no way to spend his fury on his intended victim and a desperate need to inflict damage to something, Kettlecrack spun, drew back and hurled his practice sword at the remains of his target pole. For once his aim was true. Wood met wood with a solid thunk. He had only an instant to feel some small measure of gratification when a sticky little blob of dragon fire flew over his shoulder and landed on the two pieces of oak. They were incinerated instantly.

He turned around once more, trembling with rage. "OH, NOW YOU GET IT!" He pointed a shaking finger at the beast. "WAIT AND SEE!"

He stalked off to the side of the field and ripped open the basket he'd brought. Plunging his hand within, he grasped one of the eels. They were beginning to smell rather ripe now, but he paid no attention. He whirled and made his way back to the dragon whose bodily fire had gone out. He didn't care. He drew his arm back and flung the ropy, stinking sea creature at his undersized tormentor. "Eeeel," he screeched.

Less than halfway to its target the carcass vanished in flames. The burning, sulfurous mess hit the ground, crackling and spitting and stinking of burnt meat.

Like the dragon's vanished cloak of flames, the heat of his rage was gone in an instant.

Kettlecrack looked up at Grimjaws. There was wariness and perhaps some rebuke in those shimmering eyes, but no other reaction.

He walked to the basket and grabbed the last two eels. He made his way back to the Nightmare. He held them up wordlessly. The dragon watched. He slung the first to the ground short distance away. "Eel!" Fire slammed into the black and yellow creature, obliterating it.

He looked up again at the dragon. There was no joy in his heart, no satisfaction in his mind. His grip tightened on the last eel in his hand. Slime dripped from his knuckles. He drew in a deep breath, let it go slowly.

"All right," he said quietly. "One more chance." He moved to the edge of the field, drew back his arm and let fly. He could hardly miss the huge pine. "KILL!"

The tree died in an explosive rush of bright burning flames, sending acrid smoke billowing high into the salty air.

* * *

She said it again, unaware she was repeating herself.

"I can't believe it."

Hiccup touched her shoulder, an expression of concern and mild amusement on his lightly freckled face.

"Are you OK?"

Astrid tried again to put the experience into words and again she failed. It had turned out to be so simple and yet so horribly complicated. The larger part of her world had been exposed as a lie.

No, not a lie. A lie needed the truth to work. Her world hadn't been a lie. It had been ignorance. They'd never known the truth. And the look on Folkvardr's familiar face said something she couldn't comprehend. She thought she'd seen it before, but now she knew the ignorance of that, too.

Her Nadder sat still, his narrow chest pressed to the ground and his nearest eye turned exclusively to her. There was love in that eye. It was in his whole body, in truth; in his nearness, his stillness, his full attention to her. The tiny fluttery sounds that came from that powerful throat washed against her ears, soothing her in the strangest way. Occasionally he would reach out with the tip of his broad muzzle and lightly touch her brow, her cheek.

Once she and her dragon had come to accept each other after the battle, she'd been proud of the affection the Nadder would show her. She'd felt it to be equal to the treatment the Night Fury gave his rider; an attitude of respect and devotion that was uncanny and worthy of a Viking's friendship. But she hadn't realized, couldn't have possibly known there was a wall between them. It was a wall that separated two minds while only one of those minds had known the other existed. What she'd called love in her Nadder had, in fact, been dedicated patience. Now she saw the love in truth, without walls, without ignorance. Her dragon's patience was finally being rewarded.

Toothless, decked out in his new flying rig, was still speaking to Folkvardr. In one paw was a simple metal rod with a blunted hook. The Fury spoke, the Nadder answered, and the black dragon scratched strange symbols in loose dirt before him. Hiccup cast a glance at the glyphs, so used to reading them now that he could do it when they appeared upside down to him.

"He says his favorite is actually squid. They're hard to get, but he finds them now and then."

"Squid," she said softly. "It would be something I can't get for him."

The dragons chattered to each other a moment, then both looked at her.

"I can't believe it."

Hiccup chuckled quietly.

"Does it bother you when Thorgot or the other little kids hang onto your tail?"

Toothless grumbled, Folkvardr squawked, lines were drawn and Hiccup said, "I worry about hurts... hurting them."

"I just can't-"

"-believe it," the junior Haddock finished with her. To her immense annoyance he burst out laughing.

"You think it's funny? This is hard!" She raised a fist to punch his arm but refrained when he shook his head and held up his hands to fend her off.

"I know. Believe me, I know." His smile faded only slightly. "And I don't think it's funny. I think it's wonderful. I'm very happy."

"Why," she groused. "Because I'm having so much trouble?"

The smile left his lips but not his eyes. "No," he said quietly. "Because now I'm not the only one that really understands."

Something about that statement made her pause. Once, not so long ago, she would have hotly denied having anything in common with Hiccup the Useless. But now, with dragons sharing their lives, she no longer had a problem having many things in common with him. To be the only other person on Berk who knew the hidden truth about their reptilian companions felt strange yet comforting. And more than a little worrisome. Only they knew, the two of them. She'd never been part of a real, meaningful secret before, not until he had begun affecting her life. The results of the last secret becoming known had not been good, not at first. She'd feared for both Hiccup and her tribe; him outcast and most of the adults gone off to fight something that she knew would kill them all.

How had he kept his secrets so long? Would he have kept them forever if she hadn't found out? Did he intend to keep this one?

"How did you do it" she asked with a wave of her hand toward the black dragon. "With Toothless?"

He stared at her a moment. "Do what?"

She turned her head, embarrassed to have asked something based on what she'd been thinking, as though she'd expected him to know her thoughts. It was a silly thing to do. She noticed both dragons were watching them.

"How did you..." Suddenly she didn't know what she wanted to ask. How had he managed to fight against instinct, against tradition and common sense? Had he expected to succeed? Had he believed he knew what he was doing or had it all been luck? Unable to frame any meaningful question, she simply pointed to Toothless and said, "You know."

He looked at the Night Fury. His thoughtful expression was matched by his tone. "You mean how did I deal with the surprise of finding out he was a person? That he's as smart as I am?" He frowned, his brows drawing down as he dropped his gaze to the grass beneath him.

'As smart as I am.' That phrase set off something else in her and for a moment she had to concentrate on Hiccup's face and not look at the dragons. It was as good a question as any of hers, but she found herself uncertain she wanted to hear the answer. She replied softly, "Yeah."

His eyes closed, his frown deepened; but only for a moment. Hiccup lifted his head and gazed at Toothless, his expression clearing but still somber. His voice was tinged with regret.

"Poorly. It hurt a lot."

"Hurt?"

"Astrid," he whispered fiercely, as though he were afraid to let the intensity of his statement get away from him, "think about what I did to him. To his tail. To his whole life!"

Now she could see the real depth of Hiccup's problem. It was like mistaking a friend for a foe on the battlefield and dealing a terrible blow without knowing the truth of things until later. And when she thought of it in those terms, she realized all of Berk had been doing that for generations. She could only respond with, "Oh" in a small voice.

"Suddenly I'm facing someone I maimed out of ignorance." He turned his eyes back to the ground, his right hand pulling tufts of new grass out by the stems. "Someone who became my friend, who helped us end the war." He threw down the green shoots and looked once more at his dragon. "And saved my life into the bargain." He sighed. "I felt horrible."

Astrid found herself wondering what she would have felt if she had injured Folkvardr more seriously during their fights. How would she have dealt with that? She looked up at the Fury. "So... does he know?"

Hiccup suddenly looked disappointed and she realized what she'd said.

"Of course he knows."

"Yeah," she agreed, subdued. "This is gonna be hard, changing how I think about them. I keep forgetting."

It took several moments of silence for her to realize he was staring at her.

"What?"

"Astrid, if you have trouble, how do you think the rest of the village will feel? How-" He broke off, his eyes full of misery. "How can I possibly explain all this to my dad?"

Considering her own first reaction to his declaration, she could see his point. And yet there was an insistent voice in her that said if they could end a generations-long war against dragons, then surely the people of Berk could come to understand and accept their true nature. Eventually.

Maybe.

The more she thought about it, the less positive she felt. She recalled Hiccup mentioning that hardly anyone in the village rode dragons. Even now, with the Red Death no longer driving them to raid Berk, dragons were only tolerated. Few embraced them as she did, as the rest of their dragon training class did.

How could they convince the others? What might sway them to consider the possibility that Folkvardr could speak and that Toothless could translate? When she thought of some of the things she'd heard said during her life, the raw hatred and desire for revenge against the winged tormentors of the tribe, she wondered that there weren't random attacks against the dragons that claimed the village as their home. How could they possibly change such minds?

She looked at Hiccup, for a moment feeling as despondent as he sounded. Then it came to her. She thought it through for a few moments. It felt right. She tried to work it through, to look at it from another's point of view. It still felt right. Odin preserve them, it _had_ to be right.

They didn't need to convince the village.

"Hiccup, do you remember what you told us about the battle?"

He gave a confused grunt. "What are you talking about?"

"You told us one night about how Stoick rescued Toothless from drowning." It had been the middle of the winter just passed, a blizzard had been hammering them for two days and much of the island's population had taken shelter in the great hall for warmth and food. Everyone from their dragon training class had wound up sharing their stories of that day on Red Death Island, telling their separate tales as the winds howled outside.

Hiccup nodded slightly. "Yes, but what does that-"

"Do you know why he did that?"

His mouth opened, and then slowly closed. It seemed the question surprised both of them.

"Do you know how hard that had to be for him," she pressed. "Can you imagine what that cost him?"

"Cost?" Hiccup was quite skilled at making a single word carry a barrelful of skepticism.

"Yes," she insisted. "Cost. He had to ignore _everything_ he thought he knew about dragons and do something that went against all reason. And do it quick, or Toothless would drown. He put himself at risk, put everything he knew aside and trusted _you_ to do something he couldn't."

Hiccup stared at her, the light slowly dawning in his deep green eyes.

"And what did you do?" She pointed to the Night Fury. "You and Toothless saved everyone there." The rightness of it crystallized in her mind as she spoke. If it hadn't been so serious, she might have laughed at her own blindness. "That's what Stoick's trust in you gave the rest of us. And all he had to do was step aside and stop being the leader he'd always been so you could do what you had to."

The boy was dumbstruck. She almost felt bad for him, but she wanted to complete her thought, to see it through and give them both the answer they needed.

"Can't you trust him to listen to you now? When the whole village knows you're the person to listen to when it comes to dragons? It's only fair, really."

There were several minutes of silence after that, broken only by the wind and the growly conversation of two dragons. Was Toothless translating for her Nadder? The desire to know burned brightly for a moment, stoking that familiar fire that drove her to improve herself.

Hiccup said nothing more on the subject. He just pulled absently at the grass beneath him and looked thoughtful. Astrid's chain of thought eventually led her to another question.

"So, if he knows what you did, how come he's your friend?"

The boy turned solemn eyes to her, the corners of his mouth turning downward slightly. An edge of pain crept into his voice. "He forgave me." His gaze drifted once more to the Fury. "I asked him to forgive me, and he did."

Vikings weren't big on forgiveness. Bloody knuckles and bruises usually made do in place of such words. But hearing it from Hiccup made her feel that she also needed to make some kind of amends to Folkvardr.

She looked at her own dragon. A person, she reminded herself. A Viking in scales.

That image failed utterly. And that was what made it so hard. Before today there had been only people who were Vikings and Vikings were the only people. All else were animals or dragons, the oversized reptiles being nothing more than animals so dangerous they were considered implacable foes.

Now she had been shown the truth, that Vikings were one kind of people and dragons another kind. Where once there had been one, now there were two. And one of those other people was her friend, despite...

She had asked, but not been answered. Now she needed that answer.

"Do you think Folkvardr knows that I... that we were trying... in the arena..." She found it difficult to say the words. She glanced at Hiccup, the unhappiness making her expression a match for his. Thankfully, he easily grasped her meaning.

"That we were trying to kill him?"

Memories of the battles in the arena flooded her mind again; the thrill of conflict and the determination to see the enemy beaten. It all looked so wrong now, in light of the truth. It stole the words from her and left her silent.

"I don't see how he couldn't."

Astrid brooded silently on that. The incompatible feelings of what they had believed then and what she'd seen now warred within her. Anger, frustration and guilt tugged at her with equal strength. Eventually she slammed her hand down flat on the grass. "We didn't know!" She looked at him, knowing the dismay was obvious in her eyes. "We _couldn't_ know!"

Hiccup nodded. "I think they know that, too."

A quiet sound from Toothless, a soft warble that ended with a muted chirp, claimed the boy's attention. There were new symbols in the dirt between them. Hiccup read them with a slightly puzzled frown.

"I... I think Toothless is saying he's going to teach Folkvardr to answer simple questions by moving his head for yes or no. Um, your dragon doesn't know a lot of our words but he's going to try to teach him."

"You think?"

The young Haddock actually became somewhat defensive at that. "It's not precise. Like you said, it's hard. And besides, we've only just started, really. We're still learning." He looked back at the two dragons. "I'm guessing your Nadder will have to learn the hard way, the same as we did. Try, fail, try again."

Astrid looked over her shoulder at their village. "I'm thinking we all will."

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2012

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN:** I need to apologize to the folks who have been following this story. I'm truly sorry it took so long to get this posted. I tried very hard for several weeks to get my plot in good working order and failed. After wasting so much time for little gain, I also came to realize I claimed the previous chapter to be the end of the second act erroneously. Looking at what I know is to come, I see now that I have a ways to go before the third and final act begins.

The good news is that means there must be several more chapters written before this story concludes. It also means I will have to grope my way through it, chapter by chapter. The next one is almost entirely laid out and ready for work so it won't take as long, perhaps 3-4 weeks. After that, all bets are off.

Thank you for your time and attention. I'll do my best to avoid disappointment (yours and mine.)


	21. Fuel for the fire

Broken

Chapter 21: Fuel for the fire

There was still snow in the shadowy places beneath the overhang of rock. Even this late in the spring the snow and ice would remain in the highest peaks of Hoskuld's Spear, especially in those nooks and crannies where the sun could never quite reach. It wouldn't be until those brief weeks of summer were on them that the last of it would finally melt. So far as he knew, Stoick was the only one on Berk who ever journeyed far enough up the peak to see it. The shallow cut in the rocks high up the Spear was difficult to find and harder to reach. He'd found it as a boy, exploring the dizzying heights of the craggy mountains that made up so much of the island.

It was now a tradition for him, one he started the year he became the chief. Every spring, when the snows were gone from the ground and the green things were layering much of the island in flowers, he would come up as far as he was able, to the small cave overlooking his village. He would bring no food or water, only a short sword and a dagger to protect himself from anything that might attack a lone traveler. Without the threat of dragons to concern him, he'd almost left the sword behind this time. Somehow it felt wrong not to have it, so he wore it sheathed on his back instead of his hip to make climbing easier.

Stoick removed his sword and laid it beside him. He settled his large frame against the rock wall and looked out upon the splendor of the island and the vast expanse of the sea beyond. As many times as he'd come up here the spectacle was still breathtaking. The first time he'd seen his home from so high up he'd been convinced he could see all of Midgard. He was no longer so naïve, but it was still a wonder to behold so much of the world he knew in one glorious view.

He took a deep breath, enjoying the stillness and solitude. Once each spring and once each autumn he allowed himself to leave his fellow Vikings to their own devices and make his way up the mountain. The cooling months after the short summer would often provide scenes of iron grey clouds building on the horizon, mustering their power for the coming winter storms. The view in the fall wasn't as spectacular as in the spring; it was more a reminder of the fragility of life and the true balance of any one Viking against the immensity of the world in which he lived. Stoick was never one to look at himself as small, even against large flying reptiles. A day spent at the tip of the Spear would remind him of his relative size and help him keep that balance in his thoughts the rest of the year.

Only the wind spoke to him this spring. He could barely hear a few seabirds in the distance. Even the constant rumble of the surf was too far off to catch. He sighed, as much at peace with himself and the world below him as he was likely to get.

"Have you seen anything like it, Val?"

He smiled and closed his eyes, summoning her face from memory, the sound of her low, throaty voice, the smell of her hair. His arms lay across his stomach as he concentrated on her, his legs straight out before him and his back curled against the sun warmed cave wall. He relaxed as much as he was able, letting memory and his senses fill his mind. He imagined her sitting beside him, looking out at their world.

"Would you have believed it even possible?"

She'd been the fiercest shield maiden he'd ever known. She'd picked her teeth with her dagger, scratched her firm backside with an axe and would as easily lift a hot cooking pot from the hearth with her bare hands as she would swim in the near freezing waters of the sea for fun. Pitching Stoick over an embankment into chest high snow or smacking him in the back of the head with a snowball packed around a pinecone was her idea of flirting.

That same warrior woman had absolutely melted at the sight of their first born child. Her heart had been so large that the love she bore her family could have kept them warm all the winter nights of eternity.

Could have.

Until this moment, he hadn't known how he would feel; claiming his temporary spot high above the village, speaking to his departed wife, trying to explain to her and to himself what had happened since he'd last been in this spot. He'd almost come to dread making the ascent this year. He didn't know what he would see or what he would say. After half a year he still felt unsettled, unprepared. Lost. He'd been keeping his focus short, working on the problems of each day as they came. Looking too far forward filled him with doubts. So did looking too far behind.

And now, with her strong presence in his mind and heart, the words came unbidden.

"He's everything you swore he'd be."

That, in complete honesty, was the only thing Stoick had ever thought of as 'weakness' in the woman. She'd believed her son was born for great deeds despite his physical form. A mother's blindness, he'd thought. It was true Hiccup had shown signs of cleverness and ingenuity early on, but what Viking had ever bested his enemies with smarts? None that he'd heard of. But she saw something in their son that he didn't. Not until long after she was gone.

And she'd been right.

"He ended our war. Ach, you should have seen it. Flying up into the clouds with that monster coming..."

No. She didn't need to see that. It had been a glorious sight, but her mother's heart wouldn't have borne it well. Likely she would have been at his bedside when he woke rather than the black devil, berating him for his recklessness. He could just imagine it: 'Look at this! See what ye done? Lost a perfectly good leg flitterin' around on that beast!' The thought brought a smile to his lips.

"He's still different. He tamed a Night Fury, Val! It follows him like a lamb, carries him on its back. It's... he's..."

He remembered a red night, more fire and fighting than they'd seen in a long, long time. A short, cold summer left hunger stalking every living thing. The dragons had been as desperate to eat as the Vikings they'd raided. It had gone on for hours until Stoick had been at the end of his strength. Gobber'd lost his second limb and nearly every sheep not hidden was carried off into the glowing night. A Night Fury had hit them hardest, leveling every defensive weapon they'd had. He'd seen a ball of intense blue fire land on the other side of the village, where she'd been with half the population trying to protect what little food they still had. He never knew if that had been the attack that took her, but in his heart he'd always suspected.

The two images couldn't live in his mind at the same time; her lifeless body flat on the ground, a blood stained hammer in one hand and a tuft of wool clenched in the other. She'd fought so hard. And Hiccup, astride one of the beasts that had killed her, laughing, shouting. He'd been too young to really understand at the time. The hatred hadn't lodged in his heart as it had in Stoick's.

"I don't know, Val. I can't deny what he's done but it just..."

How did one live with something that felt right and good as well as hurtful and unjust? Countless raids and countless deaths defined what it meant to live on Berk, to be a Viking. Dragons killed and stole, Vikings hunted and defended. It was never easy but it was simple and clear to the mind. Now their lives were better without the happiness that should have gone with it. It wasn't like a bitter medicine that cured, a price to be paid to counter some ill. It was more like believing in a good dream because you were fairly certain you were better off not waking up any time soon.

That was what bothered him the most. He lived every day of his new life wondering when he was going to wake up and find more blood on the ground and his entire world on fire.

"I... I don't know what to do," he whispered. "I'm worried Hiccup's right. And I'm worried he's wrong."

He looked up at the great piles of fleecy clouds framing the sun. Was that a place for Vikings? Floating above Midgard on leathern wings? Could he see more from up there than from the side of a mountain?

He started wondering if Valhallarama would have taken to dragons had she lived. Her faith in her son might have allowed her to seek a place among the clouds. She'd been fearless. But she'd also been a true Viking, determined to rid Berk of its greatest menace.

Which end of the sword were they truly holding?

The shadows of clouds worked their way across the island, making dark spots that oozed slowly from one shore to another. His eye caught one smaller shadow among the larger. He found its owner gliding among the ever changing cloudscape. A Nadder, from the size of the head and wings. A tamed one, for there was a darker blot on its back.

Stoick supposed it was a good day to be flying. The birds certainly thought so. They were much in evidence this afternoon. They tended to fly lower to the ground when dragons were about but they seemed to have the sky mostly to themselves this day.

He blinked. Kneeling up he moved closer to the lip of the cave to look around. Down around the village, across the many pockets of forest, over the few open beaches and across the entire blue dome of the sky he saw only the one dragon. He looked again, carefully, trying to spot the ever present creatures that now called the island home.

Eventually he spotted two more; a Nightmare diving into the water near the docks to feed and a lump by the Ingerman's house that was most likely the Gronckle Fishlegs rode. But no others.

Where had the rest gone?

* * *

The question bothered him enough that he finally came down before he'd intended. He watched the sky and the village, thinking not of his wife or his son or even his fellow Vikings. His mind was firmly fixed on the winged reptiles that had so complicated their lives. As the sun passed its highest point he eventually saw a few more of the beasts moving about Berk, including his son's. Still there were nowhere near as many as he was used to seeing. Was it something to do with their mating cycle? They had all endured the spectacle and cacophony of what seemed a vigorous and healthy mating season a few weeks back. Could this sudden absence be related to that?

By the time he'd come back within sight of the village he'd seen a few more on the wing. Two had riders upon their backs while the third flew alone. The only approach to Berk from the Spear brought him down close to the beach where Ingifast had his shack. There were two huge worn logs half buried in the surf that served as a ramp to build and repair their boats. Rorik sat upon those logs now, the damage to her side plain and worse than the shipwright had implied. Ingifast himself was standing atop a barrel, chiseling away at the splintered hull. He would soon have clean cuts where the replacement boards could be fitted properly.

The older man was concentrating on his work and didn't see his chief until Stoick hailed him. Ingifast waved his woodworking hammer then paused, realizing where the younger man had just come from.

"Been up top, have ye?"

"Aye. A good clear day to see the world."

Ingifast chuckled. "I suppose. Had wood chips in my eyes most of the morning, so I wouldn't know."

Stoick looked around the open beach. "Got the shore to yourself today, I notice."

The shipwright looked around, unconcerned. "Looks like."

"This may seem an odd thing to ask, but have there been any dragons down here today? Eating or bathing?"

Ingifast shrugged. "Not that I noticed. Course I wasn't looking." A sudden look of concern crossed his weathered face. "Anything wrong?"

Looking at the empty beach and the empty sky, Stoick started to answer. He wanted to smile and say everything was fine, especially without dragons underfoot. It didn't feel right, though. If the last six months had taught him anything it was that new behavior concerning the dragons warranted attention. He shook his head and simply said, "Just curious."

He moved inland from the beach, thinking. It could be anything, really. Or nothing. Berk was still learning about how the large reptiles conducted their lives. Their absence this day could be completely normal. It could easily be they were off nesting somewhere safe, getting ready to raise their young. He supposed they should be glad of the brief respite, especially if the beasts intended to come back. But what if they were gradually leaving? It could mean a better life for all of them. He decided on a slow walk through the village, to see how folks were getting on.

He'd only passed a few houses when he got his first bit of evidence. "Chief!" It was Sigurd Clayfoot, the potter. His boots and hands were perpetually stained a dull brown and crusted with the evidence of his craft. He also bore the marks of dozens of battles, various burn marks and talon scars on his arms and neck. "Have ye got a moment?"

"Of course, Sigurd. What's on your mind?"

The potter set his hands on his hips, looking none too pleased. "Someone owes me a string of halibut and a ham."

Stoick blinked. Theft? "Tell me."

"Better I show you."

What Sigurd showed him was a short piece of sliced rope dangling from the eave of his roof and a small bent hook. These were all that were left of the fish string and a ham from a boar he'd taken the day before. When he pointed down at the second piece of evidence, Stoick frowned. Clearly obvious Nadder tracks could be seen below the spot where the meat had been hanging.

"I'd say someone's dragon has decided to start pilfering," Sigurd declared.

It certainly looked that way. Before the battle, meat hung out to dry was safe until the dragons showed up in force to raid them. Stealthy attacks were never a problem. Food that came up missing without a corresponding raid was either theft or some clever scavenging animal without wings. This was too much like the missing sheep from the Ornolf's pen for Stoick's comfort. Why would dragons be stealing food when they were not prevented from feeding freely in the nearby waters or from the game inland?

It then occurred to him that perhaps these two mysteries were connected. If the dragons were nesting then perhaps their mates were taking food to them, as some kinds of birds would. That might explain both their reduced presence around Berk and the incidents of opportunistic food theft. But was that the truth of it?

He gazed a moment at Sigurd, trying to remember. "You don't keep a dragon, do you?"

The other man snorted. "Not likely. I'm glad enough the fighting's done and the raids have stopped but they're no friend of mine."

Stoick nodded, considering. He clapped Sigurd on the shoulder. "I'll look into this. Thank you for bringing it to my attention."

He headed next to the closest place where he knew someone who did keep a dragon. Several, in fact. Before he knocked on Gobber's door he looked around the corner at the large stall the Boneknapper slept in. There was no sign of the beast. There were at least two Terrible Terrors napping on his roof, however. As he looked at them a third poked its head up to stare down at him.

The master blacksmith wasn't home so he made his way over to the smithy where smoke was coming from the chimney in thick puffs. Before he entered he heard the familiar ring of hammer on steel. It wasn't the continuous strokes of shaping, though. They were the lighter, infrequent sounds of what Gobber called 'kisses', the finishing strokes that would put the final touches to a blade before it got its first sharpening. Thus Stoick was certain what the master smith was doing as he set foot within his smoky domain.

As he expected, his burly blonde friend was holding up a dagger to check its edge when he first saw him. He laid the short blade back on his anvil and gave it a few more kisses with his hammer before inspecting it again. Close by sat a pair of newly made rudder fittings for Rorik. He looked around to see what kind of work the smith was involved in as he waited for Gobber to notice his presence. There was nothing unusual to his eyes; a finished door latch sat next to a short piece of light chain. Beside them sat a bent boat hook that would doubtless be strengthened and straightened before dusk.

"Oy Stoick," the smith cheerfully hailed him. He set the dagger down by the grinding wheel and approached. The warmer weather and his glowing forge had given him reason to shed his small fur vest and replace it with a thick leather apron to keep off the worst of the heat. Even so the man was sweating heavily. He picked up a nearby mug and drained it. "What brings ye by? Need another trophy sharpened?" He stumped to the rain barrel outside and dipped his mug to refill it.

"Just... having a look around. Seeing what there is to see."

Gobber noticed the hesitation in his voice. He must have also seen something in his face. He stared a moment before he came closer and stood next to his friend and leader. Setting the mug down gently, the younger man leaned against a work table and eyed Stoick again. "What's wrong," he asked quietly. Trust the man to know when he was feeling troubled.

Stoick wasn't in a habit of heaping his troubles on others. It was his role as the tribe's leader to deal with problems as best he could. At the moment he didn't know if he had a problem or not, so he went forward with his intention of learning more about what was happening around the village.

"When was the last time you saw your dragon?"

That gave the smith pause. He took a moment to consider before answering. "Just this morning. Why?"

Still Stoick resisted speaking on the matter until he knew more. "How often do you see him in a day?"

Gobber was intrigued, there was no doubt. But he answered his friend's question. "Most days he's here wanting attention. Sleeps in his stall most nights." He shrugged. "Now and again he'll wander off for a few days. I don't really try to keep track."

Stoick considered this before offering the first clue to his concerns. "Have you noticed anything different about the dragons lately?"

"Different," his friend echoed. "Like what?"

"Anything. Anything that seems unusual."

There was a long pause as the question was considered. Finally the smith could only shrug. "Not that I've noticed."

Time to be more direct. "Have you noticed a _lack_ of dragons in the last few days?"

Gobber looked over his shoulder and out the large doors of his smithy. A frown slowly pulled at his mouth. "You know, now you mention it..."

"I was up on the Spear this morning. I could count the number of dragons around Berk on one hand."

Gobber's frown deepened. "What do ye think happened to them?"

Stoick sighed. "I don't know. And I'm wondering what it means. For them and for us."

The smith puzzled out that statement a moment. He seemed to come to no better conclusions than his chief did.

He thanked his friend for his time, asked him to keep an eye out for any other clues that might help explain the missing dragons and went on his way. There was one family in particular he wanted to check on. He went strolling by Bonescrape's house. Her husband Grumblemud was cutting a log into shorter pieces for splitting into firewood. He seemed grateful for the distraction and eagerly spoke to Stoick about his son's recent escapade.

Oddlog, he said, had indeed returned safe and sound the night before. Bonescrape had been angry that he hadn't returned earlier or let anyone know where he was going. Grumblemud had spoken up for the boy and they'd argued about it for a time. Of more interest to the chief was the fact that the boy's Gronckle Seasquirm hadn't been found. During the course of the conversation Grumble added one other clue of which he'd been unaware. Herdis' dragon Bitterbug had been acting strangely a few days before and was now among the missing. When Stoick asked what was meant by 'strangely', Grumblemud could only shrug. No details had been given but the impression he'd gotten was that the dragon had become moody and somewhat irritable.

He thanked the man and went on his way, once more wondering if there was a simple answer to the mystery of the missing dragons and their recent misbehaviors. Had Bitterbug come into her first mating season? Was Seasquirm out courting some other Gronckle with vomited fish and that strange dance of fluttering wings and deep grunting calls?

Stoick found himself thinking he might have to do as Freygerd had suggested and ask Hiccup if he knew anything about these new puzzles.

* * *

When he got home, Berk's leader saw he needed to follow Grumblemud's example and cut firewood before he could begin making the evening meal. Hiccup would help around the house where he was able but handling an axe was simply not within his range of abilities. Not to Stoick's satisfaction, anyway. There was always the concern of the boy hurting himself as well.

The ordinary tasks of a day, such as splitting wood, would often spur thoughts of his son's limitations and cause him to wonder how Hiccup would fare as leader. Would Berk follow a chief that couldn't cut his own firewood? It might very well be that Hiccup would be able to keep himself safe enough with his large and dangerous pet by his side. He supposed the Fury might even be considered weapon enough in a battle that its presence could counter the boy's serious lack of fighting skills. But axes and hammers were not just weapons and he doubted the black dragon could successfully cut a tree into firewood for his rider. Surely Hiccup could see the danger of such limitations in himself. Couldn't he?

Then again, perhaps his skill at building strange tools and devices would be put to use to solve such problems. Would that allow him to be seen as a fit leader? Could Hiccup invent his way through life while being protected by his dragon?

If he could, Stoick couldn't see how. Arguably, self reliance and the ability to perform in battle could be considered some of the lesser qualities needed of a good chief. And Hiccup hadn't really managed to develop most of the important skills he would need when the time came.

The last of the felled logs were split. He would have to go bring down another dead tree soon. That was something Hiccup was good at. When the boy had been younger, he'd called scouting for standing deadwood 'hunting.' They'd all thought it amusing, not realizing that deceased timber would be the limit of the quarry he could hunt.

Stoick had the last armload of wood and was about to go in when he spotted his son approaching. He was on foot with his dragon following right behind. The boy had that look on his face he'd come to dread over the years. Bad news was in his immediate future. Hiccup saw him, their eyes meeting for an instant. His stride faltered at that moment and Stoick could only sigh, wondering what recent catastrophe the junior Haddock would relate.

"Hey dad," came the weak greeting. A painfully false smile made him realize something might be seriously wrong this time. Hiccup's self-confidence was more robust of late yet still a fragile thing. "Chopping firewood, I see."

Sarcasm, a subtle biting wit was Hiccup's style. He tended to disdain those who often stated the obvious. Stoick began to worry.

"What's wrong?" He didn't want to waste time trying to drag the news from his son. The way the boy flinched told him he was right to worry.

"Dad, there's... there's something I have to tell you." He glanced up briefly, trying to judge his mood most likely. "You're not going to like it." That didn't surprise him. "No one is."

That _did_ surprise him. But it also seemed to point to the mystery that had been bothering him all day.

"It's the dragons, isn't it?" The look of utter shock on his son's face said it all. He felt a moment of deep satisfaction at being able to prove he could solve such puzzles as well as his son. "They're nesting and don't want to hunt so they're stealing food again." He shook his head. "I should have known. All that... racket last month was certainly a clear warning."

"What?" Hiccup gaped for a moment before glancing at the dragon at his side. "No, I don't... they, this isn't about-"

"Then why are they taking food that isn't theirs?"

The boy seemed even more confused. "I ... I didn't... they-"

"This isn't your fault son; you can't be expected to control all of them. But we'll need to find some way to discourage them." Hiccup looked pained. "Something not lethal, of course," he amended. "Although-"

"DAD!"

Stoick frowned. There was no call for the boy to shout. It was just disrespectful.

The Fury beside him touched his shoulder with its nose. It seemed to help calm him. In a quieter tone, Hiccup said, "There's something very important I have to tell you."

"Does it have to do with the dragons?"

The boy took a deep breath. "Yes, but-"

"Does it have to do with them stealing food again?"

His son didn't seem to have an answer for that. He just stared for several moments. "No."

"Then it can wait. I'm about to start supper. You can help if you like." He stepped into the house with his load of firewood. Hiccup didn't follow him in directly but did eventually step inside. The black beast came in with him. He frowned again as he set the last of the firewood on the pile by the door. He picked up a few smaller pieces to rebuild the fire in the hearth.

"Dad, I was wrong about the dragons."

Stoick paused. For an instant he wondered if Hiccup might now see the beasts as more of a problem than he'd previously believed, especially in light of their recurring bad behavior. Perhaps the boy was finally ready to see reason.

But that hope quickly faded. This was the same young man who'd worked hard at integrating the oversized serpents into village life. To be fair, they both knew the value of the relative peace they now enjoyed. Hiccup, however, had the same tenacity his father did when it came to matters of importance. He might be willing to concede he'd misjudged the dragon's ability to accept domestication but he would never agree to Stoick's desire to push them away for good. And despite all his misgivings about the other dragons, the chief had no wish to deny his son the protection and loyalty his pet offered.

He gave his son an appraising glance before dumped his armload of dried wood into the hearth. Ignoring the puff of ash it kicked up, he picked up a few of the smallest pieces and began building a small pyramid that would be the base of the new fire. One was a little too large so he used it to dig a slight depression in the bed of ashes for the kindling. "Aye? How so?"

The boy laid a hand on his dragon's neck. "They're smarter than I realized. _Much_ smarter."

Stoick shook his head and leaned back from the edge of the hearth. Trust his son to see everything completely backwards. "Oh, aye. They're clever critters all right. They stopped fighting us so they could start taking our food without getting killed in the process." Even as he said it, it dawned on him that perhaps the reptilian pests were actually doing just that. Without the war going on they were free to nest in peace and could gather food easily, stealthily. Why raid your enemy when you could just move in and take what you wanted effortlessly? His grip tightened on the last piece of firewood still in his hands. Why hadn't he seen it before?

"No, dad, I mean they're as smart as we are. They do a lot of the same things we do." He turned to the beast beside him. "Toothless and I are learning to talk to each other. We've invented a new written language just for us." Hiccup turned back and froze. He could feel the scowl on his face as easily as the boy could see it. His son's voice dropped as he added, "Dragons are... are people. They're just like us. Only shaped different."

Stoick stared. He hadn't heard it right, he couldn't have. But the expression on his son's face denied that.

It was like a dagger in his heart. His chest felt tight and his hand trembled around the piece of wood it held. A red night, a blue fire, and Val laying dead while her son dared to call them people. Dragons were nothing but animals, vicious animals that left scars on everyone they didn't kill. They had no honor, knew no mercy. Their eyes glowed with the fire within them. Demons, devils, destructors.

There was nothing in his mind but anger and memories. He heard shouting, screeching, the sound of fires consuming houses and lives. The dagger twisted; loss, pain and the unwanted undercurrent of fear. He felt the handle of his war hammer in his hand, saw the enemy before him. He didn't realize he'd stood up, didn't know he'd started to raise the heavy stick. Not until a sheet of black leather suddenly unfolded to block his view of Hiccup.

The Fury stared at him, head down. Its pupils were slitted but it didn't bare its teeth, didn't growl. Hiccup made a sound of surprise, called his dragon's name.

Stoick stopped. This creature, this shade of midnight had worked its way into his son's heart and made him its own. One more thing dragons had taken from him. He remembered; houses burning, crops destroyed, food stolen. Screaming and cursing and roaring that seemed to tear the very air apart.

He also remembered the Red Death. He remembered a sound he'd once hated hearing, a building shriek as a sleek, deadly body hurled earthward. He remembered a bolt of blue fire as bright as the sun flashing down and slamming into that immense creature, knocking it flat on its side. A dragon the size of the great hall, possibly the most powerful living thing in Midgard and it was driven to the ground by the very beast standing before him, shielding his son from his rising anger with one unfurled wing.

Stoick let the wood fall to the floor. With a grunt of disgust for the whole situation he stepped outside and grabbed up his axe. He heard his son's voice from inside.

"Where are you going?"

_Away from you_, he thought. _To keep from doing or saying something I may regret_.

"Dad?" The Fury was blocking the door, not letting Hiccup come outside. Still protecting him from his own father.

"To get firewood!"

* * *

Rage was power. It fueled the body long after it should have been exhausted, conquered fear and doubt. It burned away the trivial and the irrelevant. It filled Stoick with a desire to destroy his enemy.

It also clouded reason, hid truths and caused needless destruction.

His father's words forced their way into his thoughts and drove him to march angrily out into the forest. He approached the trees, his vision tinged with red and a desperate need boiling in his belly. He seethed, muttering as he neared his targets. The words meant nothing; he couldn't hear them in any case.

With each stride away from his house and toward the forest, Stoick fought a battle. The memory of his wife and the wisdom of his father clashed within him until he was nearly blind and deaf to all around him. Valhallarama, the woman he cherished. His father, the leader he'd tried his whole life to emulate. The loss of one and the guidance of the other; these things pulled at him until he felt his mind would tear apart.

She'd died protecting a sheep, only a few bloodied tufts of its wool remaining in her lifeless hand. The sight had shocked him to his core. Val had been far too strong to die for so small a prize. It was a wrong that haunted him even now.

His father had known. Rodmar Haddock, the chief of Berk known as Hammerhand, had seen his fill of death and destruction yet gained as much favor among his tribesmen as a wise man as he did for being a warrior.

Dragons. They were the spawn of Nidhoggr, the great serpent that gnawed at the roots of the tree of the world. They toppled what you built, ate what you grew or hunted, threatened all that was good.

_Dragons are people. Just like us. Shaped different._

Rage.

The very idea that all the death and destruction dragons had caused for generations could be equated to anything Vikings ever did was a mortal insult. Dragons were mindless killers; he'd seen it, lived it. Maybe they could be tamed but they could never be 'people'.

Away from the house, away from Hiccup, away from the Fury. He moved steadily in the direction Hammerhand guided him. His wife was dead, his son called her killer a person and his father insisted he move to the forest.

Something dark and wide and tall stood in his path. Stoick stopped, looked up. He had arrived. It was time to finally let his rage go where it would.

The sound of the first blow against the stately pine resounded among its lesser offspring. Every bit of power Stoick possessed went through his arms, into his axe and into the tree. The well sharpened blade bit deeply and refused to come back out. He tugged at the handle, his anger pushing him beyond control. Being balked by something as inanimate as a tree turned his wrath from a glowing red fire to a white hot furnace. Placing one foot against the trunk, he ripped it out with a bellow that left his throat raw.

The axe flew again and again, sending all his hate and pain into the trunk before him. He roared his fury at the flying chips of bark and wood.

He wanted his life back. He wanted his Berk back. So much had been taken from him, from the whole tribe. It infuriated him that his son had, in his soft, quiet way, exposed the life of lies they had been living for generations.

The axe took larger and larger chunks from the heart of the tree. The sound of them tearing loose was always followed by the deep, meaty thunk of the next strike.

The notion that they could have been taming dragons centuries ago was a wound he could hardly bear. He'd had no way to know. No one in Berk could have known. It was a way of life, it was practically a tradition. It kept the tribe strong, kept them focused, helped them survive.

The rhythm of his attack filled his senses and helped propel his furious movements. He heard a single loud crack but it didn't register in his mind. No more than the harsh, grating howl that poured from his jaws.

They'd been victims more times than he could count. They'd known hunger, deprivation, desperation and death. There'd never been mercy from the enemy and none was given. To kill them was to rid the world of a mindless predator, an animal so fierce and destructive that no other creature than man could fight them.

Another loud crack. It meant nothing. The axe and the tree were all.

He still wanted them dead. He still wanted to kill them, to hear their screeches of pain as they were cut, impaled, crushed. He wanted blood running down his arms and staining his face. He wanted them gone, he wanted his world back.

Befriending dragons was wrong, riding them was wrong, forgiving them was wrong. They'd taken everything he'd tried to protect, destroyed everything he cherished. There could be no succor, no relief, no-

A sound pulled him back from his bestial rampage, a shuddering groan that filled his ears and meant danger. The world seemed to tilt and he hesitated, confused. Then he realized the tree was falling. Only it wasn't falling right. It was coming down in a way that had killed several foolish men over the years.

Stoick had only an instant to see it. His attack on one side of the wide trunk had weakened it. But instead of falling toward the cut, the massive tree was leaning away from him. Because there was no back cut on the other side and his axe had reached the weaker heart wood at the center of the pine, the trunk split lengthwise to a point just over his head. There the increasing angle of the falling tree finally snapped the rest of the trunk.

Instead of toppling straight over though, the weight and pressure of the falling tree pulled the split end of the trunk up in an arc, right toward Stoick's head. Worse, after the jagged wood had rushed up level with his eyes, the other half of the trunk that still jutted from the newly made stump snapped at the base and collapsed toward him. It was as if a huge wooden viper had risen up and struck at him with a mouth as wide as his shoulders and full of pale, splintery teeth.

Stoick leapt back, trying to get away from the tree's ragged end as it came looking to avenge its demise. He felt a hard but glancing blow against his horned helm which knocked it askew. He stumbled as it blocked his view for a moment. It wasn't the worst hit he'd ever taken to the head but it as bad enough that he grunted in pain. A new sound filled his ears and beat against his wide chest. The tree met the earth with a force he could feel in his knees. The aftermath of tearing limbs and falling pinecones gave him something to focus on while he panted, strangely exhausted.

When the tree stopped moving, Stoick came back to himself. He stared in disbelief at the wide swath of destruction the tree had carved through its neighbors. The decimated trunk, he realized, looked like it had been attacked by an enormous fanged beast, not a woodsman. There wasn't so much a cut in the wood as a bite, taken one tooth at a time across the span of his height. He felt a stinging in his hands and looked down. The leather that had wrapped the handle of his axe was gone, torn loose and hanging from the end. The wood was painted with blood from where his hands had worked themselves raw. His knuckles were still white and he flexed his massive fingers, barely able to get his fist to open. His arms burned and ached in a way he'd not felt in years.

Slowly the world leaked back into his mind. He felt frighteningly weak and allowed himself to sink to the ground. He laid the axe beside him and leaned back against his wooden foe.

For a time, he did nothing but breathe. No thoughts surfaced, no feelings tore at his heart. There was a strange silence as the birds and animals near the newly felled tree hid in fear. His head throbbed a bit from the impact but it was nothing of consequence at the moment. Finally, he leaned his head back against the trunk and looked up at the enormous hole he'd made in the canopy of the forest.

He felt strangely calm, almost relaxed. The red rage had passed and only the tree had suffered. His face was wet. Sweat, he was certain. Until he put a hand to his face and felt no more than two thin tracks along side his nose. That surprised him, but also told him something important.

He'd seen this before. As a child he'd witnessed an older boy taking his anger out on one of the boats left on the beach for repairs. The teenager's axe had nearly cleaved the vessel in half before his immature rage had been spent. Stoick had thought it a mindless thing to do, to let anger get out of hand and destroy something of value. The older boy had been Anvindr. When he told his father about it, Hammerhand simply said, 'Boy, when the red rage takes you outside of battle, best you go to the forest and get firewood.'

The tree might not have been a boat, but the anger and lack of control was the same. On top of that, the end of the tree had jumped up and tried to crush his skull because he'd been too upset to pay attention to what he was doing. He'd simply taken his anger out on it without thought, without regard for possible consequences. Putting a hand to his head, he winced at the tenderness of his scalp where he'd been hit. Suddenly he felt ashamed at having endangered himself with his thoughtless actions. He knew exactly how mad he would have been at Hiccup if his son had done something so dangerously careless.

"You're acting the child, Stoick", he muttered to himself. "You're a leader, a warrior, a man grown. You're not supposed to throw tantrums out in the woods against harmless trees."

But he had. His father's advice had always been sound. And it had helped. He felt calm and clear of mind. With his anger burned away, he could consider what had sent him out into the forest in the first place.

Dragons. Dragons were missing. Stoick didn't mind that they were missing and he felt he understood why they were gone. But that didn't mean he actually knew what was happening with them. There might be some danger of which he was unaware.

More important, would they come back? And if they did, would they continue to steal food? Such behavior on their part would almost certainly cause renewed fighting and an eventual resumption of the war.

The war. Glory and hatred. Misery and vengeance and the certainty of having a chance to stride into the shining halls of Valhalla. Any true Viking would seek such a chance.

Or would he?

His people were finally beginning to prosper. Food was a problem, but only in the short term. They were looking forward to contacting other tribes. Bram Blacktongue had said it best, hadn't he? 'Good rains, no attacks, plenty of time to tend to such. Makes a man's job easier, eh?'

No attacks. No constant rebuilding, no endless source of injuries and death. No loss of food to repeated sky-borne raids. Well, that last was in doubt now, but otherwise...

The more he thought about it, the more he could feel the hope that had blossomed in his heart after the battle. Berk had greeted the end of the war the way they would greet a warm and fruitful spring after a long, bitter winter. It had been their best chance at living a life they had never believed possible. A chance made possible by Hiccup and his pet dragon.

Hiccup.

Stoick's head throbbed again. He closed his eyes and groaned softly. Those two were the center of it. They were the ones who had driven him out here. His ever optimistic son contended that dragons could live peacefully among the villagers. And now he claimed they were as smart as people, that they _were_ people.

His head throbbed again, harder.

Stoick took several deep breaths, forced his temper down. He put that thought aside. What was the real problem? Why had he gone for firewood?

He wanted Berk back, _his_ Berk, the village and its people the way it was before-

Finally he saw the problem. The leader of the tribe wanted the impossible. He wanted two completely different things at the same time: to have his world back as it was and still have the benefits of the peace.

War or peace. One or the other.

If it was war, could Berk survive it? Stoick seriously doubted it. He'd seen that coming before he ever laid eyes on the Red Death.

If it was peace then his world would never change back to the way it was. It _couldn't_ change back. He would have to do everything in his power to prevent it. If he still wanted to lead his tribe then he would have to learn how to live in this new world and deal with its challenges.

It wouldn't be easy.

Then again, living with continual dragon attacks certainly hadn't been easy and they'd managed it.

As much as he might hate it, he would also have to consider what his son had said. Hiccup had been right about the dragons. He'd been right about the Red Death. Odin help him, he may possibly be right about dragons being peo-

"No!"

The word came from his throat of its own accord, half denial and half plea.

It was too much. It threatened the memories of his wife. Even Vikings had their limits. He had eventually come to accept that dragons could be tamed. Many dangerous beasts could. He had seen that dragons could be friendly with Vikings. Hiccup and his cohorts were proof of that. He could even deal with the temporary necessity of using dragons to gather food to feed the village. He didn't like it, but he could deal with it.

He could even admit (if only to himself) that he owed his son's life to the black devil... no, the Night Fury. To Toothless. There was something different about that singular creature. It lived with them, even came inside the house at times. It seemed to think, to understand. It seemed to listen. He'd noticed more than once the way it would follow a conversation between him and Hiccup, as if it could understand what was being said.

That didn't make it a person. Not in his eyes, anyway. Stoick heaved a great sigh.

So that was it. Even if Hiccup was right about it, Berk's leader could never truly accept dragons as people. He could never fully forgive them for what they'd done to his village, to his wife.

But...

Perhaps he could step back a bit and give them and Berk the room they needed to come to terms of some kind. Maybe he could let Hiccup try his hand at working out this particular dragon problem. He didn't have to argue with Hiccup about it, he could just keep his feelings to himself. Stoick believed he could do that for his son, for the village. He'd not had much practice at hiding his feelings, so he knew that was going to be a challenge all by itself.

He stood, brushing off the dirt and leaves from his clothes. Picking up his helmet, he noted the shallow dent in the front. He glanced at the trunk of the pine, laid a hand on it. "I supposed I should thank you, too, for knocking some sense into me." The trace of bitterness was plain in his voice, even to his own ears. He shook his head, donned his helmet, picked up his axe and headed home.

* * *

Stoick didn't know for certain how long he'd been gone, but he didn't expect his son would still be home when he arrived. A glance at the sun told him it hadn't been overly long. There was at least another hour before sundown.

Hiccup was, in fact, still there. He was rigging the Fury - Toothless - to fly. Knowing how it might look, he drove his axe into the block they kept for splitting firewood before he approached the two. He clasped his raw, bloodstained hands behind his back and looked Hiccup in the eye. When the spindly young man looked up at him it was obvious he was as uncertain what might come out of Stoick's mouth as the chief was. His father surprised them both with his calm, quiet statement. "I'd like to see this writing you invented."

Hiccup blinked at him, obviously pleased but still apprehensive. He responded with, "We invented it together." He patted the dragon on the neck.

Stoick looked Toothless in the eyes, not sure what he would find there. The dragon's serene, thoughtful regard surprised him. "Yes," he said quietly.

He remembered this creature knocking down the Red Death. He also remembered him nuzzling his sleeping son. There was something in those yellowish green eyes that he found unnerving and compelling at the same time.

It came to him at that moment that the dragon before him, this remarkable creature, represented a crossroad. One way could still lead away from dragons living in Berk and, as he saw it, eventually back to war. The other would take him down the most difficult path he could imagine, one that would never let him fully understand his world again.

War or peace. The decision was still his.

Stoick decided. Wanting to let both his son and the dragon know, he held out his hand palm upward toward the dragon's muzzle. He moved slowly so as to not startle the beast. He expected the dragon to either sniff or lick his hand to show approval. Perhaps it might even react with sympathy to the dried blood and raw skin.

He did not expect it to slowly raise one forepaw and gently place it on top of his hand, to carefully grasp it.

That was shock enough. When the Fury released his hand and drew out a metal spike from some hidden place on its flying rig and began scratching in the dirt between them, he wondered if he was dreaming, had gone mad or if the gods were simply mocking him in some incredibly cruel fashion.

He looked down to see the dragon had scratched a childish figure in the dirt. It was drawing, he realized. Was this the language Hiccup had spoken of before? He squinted at the lines, curious in spite of himself.

It was a Viking, wide shouldered, wide legged with large horns on a helmet and a cluster of squiggly lines coming from the face that obviously depicted an immense beard. Next the Fury drew another figure, small, slight and with an abbreviated leg. Lastly he drew what looked like a Night Fury beside the Hiccup figure. It then drew a line which encircled the three figures.

"I think he's saying we're all one family now," Hiccup commented quietly, watching Stoick for his reaction.

An involuntary twitch shot up Stoick's spine. He said nothing, only stared. For a few seconds the idea of including Toothless in the Haddock family sent tendrils of anger into his heart. But it lasted no longer than that. He couldn't deny the lines in the dirt, or that the dragon before him had actually drawn them with its own paw and a metal stick his son had no doubt created for his use. The Berk he'd known his whole life gasped its last breath as he stared at those lines. All that lay before him now was the new Berk, the one that would be fashioned by his son and a powerful black dragon.

He felt odd, unsettled and wary. It took him a moment to place the feeling. It was fear. He'd felt it worst when he realized he was going to have to face a life without his beloved wife by his side. He'd hated the feeling so much he eventually buried it, and with it much of his ability to connect to the only other person left in their small family. That fear had poisoned much of his life.

Now he was feeling that kind of fear again, this time for everything else he held dear. But like Valhallarama, the old Berk was already dead. He could only mourn its passing and try to learn how to live without its comforts and familiarity. And this time he knew he couldn't bury the pain. He would have to face it, acknowledge it, live with it.

Then Stoick saw the true problem they had before them. How could Berk accept this? Stoick could barely deal with what he'd just seen. To thrust this on the rest of the village would bring chaos if not done carefully. This was a far larger, far more complicated challenge than he'd ever expected. And he truly had no idea how to deal with it.

He looked up from the drawing to the dragon. He looked at his son.

"We need to ta-"

He couldn't complete the sentence without a glance at the Fury. Those large, expressive eyes stared directly at him. He spoke again, this time to Toothless.

"We need to talk."

The dragon nodded.

Feeling strangely disconnected and lost, Stoick followed them into the house to see if they could find the answers Berk needed in the ashes of a cook fire.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2012

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN - **Another chapter delayed by life. I keep thinking I can't get any slower, yet I prove myself wrong each time.

So now Stoick has been forced to see the world the same way his son does. Not an easy day for the chief.


	22. Fear

Broken

Chapter 22: Fear

There was a time, long ago, when he would eat them. Then, not so long ago, he envied them. Now he simply watched them.

It was hard for Two Hearts to watch birds. They tended to stay away from Kin. Whether they were water birds or tree birds, they didn't share the skies willingly. This was only natural since they were usually prey.

But not to him. Not any more. When he sat still, up on a bluff overlooking the water, he would eventually see birds working their way through the wet, gusty air. If he sat long enough the water birds would become bold and slide close enough to scold him. When they did he would spit a small puff of crackling smoke to scorch a feather or two. That would usually clear the noisy ones out.

This morning there were few birds flying for the joy of it. In truth, Two Hearts had no idea if birds felt joy when they flew. They had heads smaller than flits and those tiny Kin were little more than noisy, hungry mouths. He didn't believe there were any thoughts larger than 'eat' and 'mate' in bird heads. Except, perhaps, 'fly.'

Flight had been much on his mind of late. Watching birds made the memories flare up brightly. Flying had once been as easy as breathing, as eating birds. Then when he had been trapped and couldn't fly he had wondered if death wouldn't be better. Watching birds had cooled his liver, made him envy what he used to chase and eat.

Shortly after that he was sky borne once more, but it was different. It was like being a fledgling all over again, learning how it worked with a small, warm body balanced on his shoulders.

Now flight with that small, warm body was as easy as breathing, as watching birds. And yet...

He could now fly without that body, without its constantly shifting balance and tiny, subtle clues that told him which way they were going to go. If he wanted he could chase the horizon until his wings ached or ride the updrafts the entire day without flapping once. The sky could once again be his. But it would be without the high pitched chatter or the gentle fingers touching his neck, his brow. Silence and solitude would replace the miniscule weight that had come to mean more than flight itself.

When he imagined flying alone now it felt like gray growling clouds and cold, twisting winds. Two Hearts would rather have had a mouthful of eels.

But there were tasks he needed to consider, ones that would be better served by flying alone. Knowing this, Two Hearts had asked Featherstone to wrap his body with the metal and skins that allowed him to control his dead tail. His flight mate had done as asked, leaving whispery traces of both happiness and fear behind each time he moved. The little preytooth still worried about the strength of his work, but he also suspected his rider had as little interest in spending a day alone as he did. There was no help for it. The preytooth nest needed a watcher.

That was the strongest reason for him to go ranging. His new, unnamed nest had no real protection from the threats that might appear. He had done what he could, asking others to stay alert for signs of trouble. But Two Hearts worried his requests had not gotten the results he desired. Many of the remaining Kin who lived in the preytooth nest spent their time with their bond partner or searching for food. The season of green that was on them had seen a few turn their eyes toward potential mates. It seemed likely to him that none really searched the skies for the threats of storms or scouts from rival nests. It had been even harder to explain to those Kin the need to watch for signs of sickness among the prey they all hunted, so he'd eventually given up on that.

Two Hearts also felt his wishes were only being considered because of his status as First Hunter. This was unsteady air to his wings. Watchers were normally watchers by breed - the ghostwings. Stories told that when there were no ghostwings, other Kin would act as watchers until new ghostwings joined the nest. First Hunters, however, were First Hunters by words only. Often the oldest or wisest Kin would be named so by their nest. Sometimes it was a Kin of a forceful nature, one who roused the nest in defense of its territory or resources. The First Hunter carried no burdens, enjoyed no privileges that weren't shared by all within the nest. But they were looked upon with honor and respect.

That he had been named First Hunter by the Kin that shared the preytooth nest certainly warmed his liver and gave his words the lift they needed when he asked others to carry out the duties of watcher in his stead. But it did nothing to offer true protection to the nest. It filled Two Hearts with doubts about the safety of his nest mates and his place among them.

Featherstone had changed all that. He could now offer true protection to the nest by ranging on his own, able to use his knowledge and experience to act as watcher once more.

So why did his liver feel like there was a ball of ice lodged next to it?

There were more reasons to be flying on his own than just ranging as a watcher, though that was naturally the most important. There was also his desire to know what had become of his dam, Long Eye. Had she ever returned to Fire Nest? Had any ghostwing returned? Did Fire Nest have any watchers at all?

Fire Nest had once been his responsibility. It had been his birth nest, his home to protect. Of course Kin were supposed to leave the nest eventually, to seek the air of another nest or to start a new one of their own. The Great Eel had destroyed all that. Cycle after cycle saw fledgling Kin trapped within Fire Nest, never to leave. He even wondered, briefly, if he should consider going back. Fire Nest might need both a First Hunter and a watcher, having been newly freed from that giant parasite's grip. That thought withered and died almost immediately. This was his nest now. Featherstone was here. His life was here.

Most troubling was the warning brought to him by Cloudbiter, the splitneck who claimed a nameless stonebelly had seen something so frightening it claimed all Kin must flee. That message couldn't possibly be ignored. It puzzled him badly as to how he would look into such a warning when he had no way of knowing which stonebelly had given the warning or what it had seen.

So Two Hearts sat on the cliff, weighed down by such heavy thoughts. The birds flew in wide circles around him or thrashed about in the water to hunt. The wet, cool winds teased the tips of his wings, begging him to leap into their soft embrace. Perhaps it was time to go.

A moving shadow told him of a visitor. The nearest birds wheeled away, giving the newcomer enough distance to preserve their own safety. He glanced up but could see little. The winged body had the sun almost directly behind it. In another place and time it might have signaled danger. In the preytooth nest, however, a few Kin acted with seeming disregard for others. Their only fault was youth, having joyfully left Fire Nest after the grounding of the Great Eel and before their sires and dams could fully instruct them.

As the other got closer he raised his head and roared out a brief but clear message. The Kin checked its flight, flapping hard to hover before swinging out toward the sea to adjust its angle of approach. As the light changed from hiding to exposing Two Hearts could see it was a firescale, a male by the length of the tail. A young one, judging from the amount of growth on its horns. There were only a few firescales that claimed the air of the preytooth nest, and the size of the Kin's body gave him the last scent he needed.

"Soft tailwinds" called Crush Claw, at least knowing to properly tone his greeting so as to ask permission to advance.

"Swift hunting," he answered. He not only pitched his reply to signal his willingness to accept another Kin's presence but added the deep, contented rumbling that expressed his happiness at seeing the younger male. Since being introduced by Swimmer, Two Hearts had tried to keep Crush Claw's scent in his nostrils. He shared Swimmer's concern about the firescale's bond partner, Iceblood. To his surprise, he had heard nothing unusual about the pair since. They seemed to have no problems that didn't arise between any other pairing of Kin and preytooth. Although it would keep him from beginning his ranging, he was genuinely pleased to speak to his nest mate.

As the firescale neared Two Hearts could see something clutched in his claws. It was fairly large and shed a few droplets of thick red blood into the waters below. The wind was blowing crosswise between them so he could get no other hints as to what it might be.

Crush Claw landed a bit awkwardly, his legs hampered by their burden. The firescale released it and stepped back, flaring his wings low to the ground to signal nonaggression concerning the food between them. All Kin knew that signal; dams and sires brought food to the egg nest this way, thus teaching hatchlings their first lesson in manners between Kin.

Crush Claw looked down at the prize he'd dropped, then back up. Two Hearts could see now that it was the tail of some large fish. He could also catch a whiff of its scent. It smelled to him like a deepsinger. He had been near such prey a few times and then only after one had beached and was ripe with decay. They were extremely hard to hunt, preferring the deeper waters and being far too large for air Kin to handle. Some few of the water Kin would go after them, but this was only known through stories. He knew the preytooths could hunt them from their woodfish but that doing so was dangerous to them. The size of the tail on the ground spoke of a very young deepsinger. Two Hearts was impressed.

Using the formal tones of a fledgling to an adult Kin, or any Kin seeking the advice of the First Hunter, Crush Claw spoke slowly and clearly. "I give thanks to the First Hunter and remember his deed at Fire Nest." His own scent came over that of the offering, only now detectable. He scented of doubt and fear; a considerable amount of fear, in fact. Surely he didn't expect Two Hearts to attack him?

To put the young Kin at ease Two Hearts responded with a wordless rumbling purr, the kind that came easily when Featherstone was scratching near his ear canals. "I thank you for sharing your catch. Especially one so rare." He took a moment to draw in the scent of the prey. It warmed his liver mightily. The heat of its recently ended life was still within, spilling out the heady smells of thick muscle and rich blood, faintly spiced with the hints of pain and fear that had marked its death. He clamped the fins to the ground and ripped loose a long string of meat from the spine. His first taste of deepsinger and a newly born one as well. It was a most satisfying experience.

It took a small bit of time to strip the immature bones. He allowed himself to enjoy each mouthful, letting his visitor see and scent his enjoyment. By the time he was done Crush Claw no longer broadcast any scent of doubt. But, to his dismay, he still smelled of fear. It wasn't as strong as before but it was still there, as though lodged deep within the firescale's liver.

He tried once more to ease Crush Claw's distress. He spent a moment cleaning the claws of his forepaws, his eyes firmly on the young male's face. That one would not quite meet his gaze.

"That was a very good hunt, Crush Claw. You took prey I have only touched with my eyes."

There was a slight flutter of the wide, powerful wings and a rippling dip of the long neck; signs of Crush Claw's pleasure at being praised. But still the fear remained.

"You and I are nest mates here. We share the air and the prey. I am grateful for your offering but it isn't needed between us any more. You are Kin and kin to me."

The fear diminished and the red scaled snout rose. Luminous eyes went wide. Perhaps the firescale had not expected such an intimate declaration of friendship. Finally, he spoke.

"I need the words of the First Hunter. I fear I have broken the Kin truce."

For an instant fear stabbed deep at Two Hearts' own liver. He instinctively swept his gaze over the preytooth nest, looking for signs of unrest or battle. All was as calm as it had been when he woke that morning. He considered Crush Claw's age and lack of deeper knowledge of preytooth behavior. He thought it most likely his fear of having broken the truce was a misunderstanding on his side. He turned back to the firescale.

"Tell me why you believe this."

Crush Claw's forelimbs trembled. He sank to his belly, his fear once more swarming up to fill the air between them. "I almost killed my bond partner."

Two Hearts' liver cooled considerably. Knowing what he did of Iceblood, it was possible that an incident between them could cause serious problems. Injury or maiming could imbalance the two halves of the preytooth nest. There were other winds to consider, though, and he would need to know all he could.

First he would have to help calm him. It would not do for Crush Claw to remain so fearful. He deliberately put aside his own concerns and stood, slowly moving close to his nest mate. He stretched out his neck and touched noses with the younger male. He gently lowered himself to the ground, at ease and an equal within the nest.

"Tell me," he said quietly. "Share your fears."

Crush Claw stilled himself, composing the story he needed to tell.

"This you know: Braintwist is my bond partner. He shares his catch and his woodcave with me. I share the skies with him."

"This I know," Two Hearts answered.

"Our hunts have not been easy. Braintwist knows little of Kin. I know little of preytooths."

"This I know." The whole nest knew, but he kept it from his voice and his eyes.

Crush Claw's tone changed. His story had begun. "He was teaching me a new game. At least I thought it was a game. I don't know what else to call it. It was much like 'dive and catch'."

Two Hearts knew that game well. Usually played among siblings or other nest mates, it was a simple teaching game. A stone or skull was dragged high aloft by one Kin and then dropped. Those playing would chase it down until one was named by the nest mate who'd dropped it. The named Kin would then catch the prize before it hit the ground or water and bring it aloft to drop it once more. It taught close flying, cooperative maneuvers and hunting dives.

"We were diving at wood things Braintwist had made. I didn't understand the game but I knew diving well enough. We dove closer each time." Crush Claw closed his eyes and dropped his snout. "He had a stick with him. The last time we dove at the wood things, he hit me with the stick."

Two Hearts' wings twitched and his pupils shrank to angry slits. "He hit you?"

"Right on my ear canal. It didn't hurt that much but it startled me."

His liver chilled. What could this mean? "What did you do?"

"I roared. Then I turned my head. I didn't think..." Crush Claw's wing claws, firmly planted on the ground, began to tear at the grass. He was clearly upset.

"What?"

"My horns. When I turned my head, I knocked him off with my horns. While we were still flying." The firescale opened his eyes and raised his muzzle. "I didn't mean to. I forgot he was on my neck."

Losing one's rider while airborne was something with which Two Hearts was familiar, much to his regret. He rumbled quiet encouragement for his nest mate to continue.

"He fell. And he didn't get back up, like he usually does. I thought... I thought I had killed him. I thought I had killed my bond partner." Crush Claw's neck was in the dirt now, so abject was his misery. "I didn't know what to do. I feared other preytooths would attack me if they saw me there. So I... I fled."

Two Hearts said nothing.

"I started to fly back to Fire Nest. It was the only place I could think of to go. Then I realized what I had done would destroy the Kin truce. I feared that more than anything. I came back and found Braintwist was standing where he fell."

"Was he hurt?"

"No." The younger male's eyes closed again. "But he was very angry at me. He made loud noises. He threw eels at me."

That was new, but it sounded like something Iceblood would do.

"He calmed down, but he hasn't asked to share the skies since." The firescale's eyes opened again. "I'm afraid the other preytooths will be angry, too. I didn't mean to break the Kin truce."

Two Hearts considered his nest mate's words for many heartbeats. It was troubling, yes, and for several reasons. But the words that had just passed between himself and Featherstone's sire could balance any thrown by Iceblood. Featherstone himself might be able to help keep that balance as well. He wasn't truly certain how much lift his rider's words had among his kin.

"I don't think you did break the truce. There are things happening now, things you haven't scented that will help strengthen the truce. I suspect you have done no damage."

A high warbling of relief gusted from the firescales nostrils. "Truly? I haven't damaged this nest?"

Two Hearts chirped a friendly affirmative. "Truly. You are still Kin to this nest." He considered this pairing once more. "Crush Claw, are you sure you should keep this bond? Does it feel proper to you?"

The firescale rose up, pushing his belly off the ground and looking down on the First Hunter with wide eyes. "I couldn't just... he's my bond partner. He-"

"He is Iceblood. This nest knows him. You've done well with him so far, but there is only so much a Kin should accept from a preytooth. If he hit you, hurt you-"

"I can't." The first firm, heated words that came from his liver that morning. "What if you had given up on Featherstone instead of allowing him to touch you or ride you?"

Two Hearts was unprepared for how much heat those words sparked in his liver. He pushed himself up as well and spoke without thought. "Featherstone is nothing like Iceblood! He's nothing like any preytooth in this whole nest! He would never hurt me!"

Crush Claw's neck arched back in reaction. Then his eyes shifted to gaze upon the end of his tail. His liver instantly cooled as he realized his declaration could be seen as false and foolish. Featherstone, he knew, would never hurt him. Yet he had. Two Hearts' own story was twisted and too large to swallow at once, but in comparison to Crush Claw's some parts of it were very much the same. Their riders were not, though. He had no good way to say this beyond what he'd already told the firescale. That weakness in him took away much of his lift in the matter.

For an instant his nest mate's problem was overshadowed by his own. There had always been doubts in his mind about his worthiness of being named First Hunter. Those doubts loomed large as mountains now. Too young, too different; he should have rebuffed the honor.

The two Kin stood, staring at each other. A mouthful of heartbeats passed before Two Hearts realized he needed to amend his statement. "My words were badly aimed."

"No." It was a soft chuff of sound, hard to hear. "You are right. But that is why I try with Braintwist. Maybe if I try hard enough, he can learn. I'm willing to fly the rough air if I can get to the place you are." The long, narrow head turned toward the preytooth nest. "It would be worth it."

Two Hearts had never imagined others would envy what he and Featherstone had together. There had certainly been rough air between them at the beginning. But there had been no way to know if his choices were right. There had only been the warmth in his liver as he learned what kind of preytooth Featherstone really was. To allow Iceblood to keep Crush Claw in thrall with the belief that he would become as his flight mate was not right. Try as he might he could not see a way to show the young firescale the false nature of his belief.

"I don't believe there is an end to the rough air with that one. He is too different from my rider to ever be like him, no matter how much you try to teach him."

Crush Claw regarded him with solemn eyes. "Maybe my flight will be different from yours. Maybe I will fail. I must try." He looked away, his voice dropping to a stuttering rumble. "He is the only one that would have me."

Two Hearts had no answer for that. He could only wish he had the wisdom of a true First Hunter. "Soft tailwinds."

"Swift hunting."

Crush Claw lifted and left. It was time for him to go as well.

* * *

Two Hearts wondered if any Kin had ever experienced so many complete changes within their life as he had. He doubted it. No story ever told during his fledgling days had turned on its on tail as many times as his own. Not for the first time he also wondered if his flight through life should be admired by Kin or avoided. He could not see the answer himself, not even in the middle of that flight.

Until Featherstone had given him the sticks to control his own dead tail fin, he had lived as he wanted. He had a nest to claim as his own, a way to feed (although not by his own efforts), and a companion that made flight a joy beyond imagining. He'd expected there would be rough air ahead of him. No Kin lived who hadn't flown through storms. But he had believed he knew where those storms would be and how best to deal with them.

That belief, formed shortly after the grounding of the Great Eel, was slowly being proven false. Storms arose he could never have foreseen. Some, like Crush Claw's, seemed to have no clear end. He found his thoughts sometimes disturbed by the way his life wound through the sky. It seemed as though his flight would never take him where he expected.

The sight of his new nest below him was a notable example. Two Hearts soared over the small island of the preytooth nest, working his way around its coast before heading off to range farther skies. He'd once only seen it at night; now the sight of it in full daylight was entirely familiar. He'd once been focused only on attacking the preytooth nest; now he defended it. He'd once known flight as the whole of his waking existence; now it was nearly a stranger, new yet old, stable yet untrustworthy.

While flying he had to think almost constantly. He seldom made the reversing mistakes he had when learning to use the sticks. When he wanted to bank left or right he could without accidentally doing the opposite of what he desired.

But he had to think to be certain. It kept him from being as vigilant as he might. It shortened his view of the air around him and the world below him. And it kept a tiny splinter of fear buried deep in his liver. He could make a mistake. Featherstone's work could fail. He might even be attacked by another Kin and the vulnerable skins be damaged, rendering him flightless and trapped. Or worse, crushed or drowned after a long fall.

These were the shadows that paced him as he flew in larger spirals away from his new nest. He'd always had his flight, his fire, his confidence to keep him safe and strong. Now these things were as thin as ice in the green season.

Two Hearts would not let those shadows keep him grounded. He had learned to value things that were not of himself, nor of his egg nest or even his Kin. These things needed protection and only he could provide it. He would not let the unseen storms keep him from his task.

He met Kin on his ranging. This was expected and welcomed. A healthy nest would see Kin traveling far out over the waters to do their hunting. Those Kin could relate what they saw to a watcher as he or she ranged. The sight of a ghostwing in the distance while one hunted brought warmth to one's liver and peace to one's mind. Indeed, those few Kin he met on his first ranging were most pleased to see a watcher who claimed the preytooth nest as home. It gave them a feeling of steadiness and health. The nest had no name as yet, had no watchers until this day. It had only recently seen its first breeding pairs and the building of the first few egg nests on the other side of the island, far from the preytooth's woodcaves.

Two Hearts' first ranging might have been a reasonable success had he not gone farther toward his old nest.

Thoughts of Long Eye called to him. He twisted his sticks until he was flying directly for Fire Nest. He expected he would meet some old Kin known to him who could relate the knowledge he sought. He also felt a strong desire to see Fire Nest healthy and free of the corrupting influence of the Great Eel. He'd wanted that for so long. Yet after its grounding he'd left immediately for his new home with Featherstone. It would warm his liver like sun soaked rocks to see and scent his old nest in good health, to touch noses with his dam.

Fire Nest shared one particular distinction with the preytooth nest. While they were a relatively short distance from each other, they were also a considerable distance from other nests. Fire Nest, despite its overlarge population of Kin trapped by the parasite's presence, seldom saw Kin from other nests enter its territory. The islands that surrounded it were too small or poorly formed to allow a healthy nest. The occasional intrusion of a scout from a rival nest usually meant that nest was in turmoil from poor hunting or beset by sickness. Upon seeing the state of Fire Nest such scouts had usually turned and fled, if they weren't driven off first.

It never bothered Two Hearts that his time as watcher for Fire Nest was entirely free of battle against Kin from other nests. The wrongs that had turned his nest into a trap for so long were more than enough to weigh him down. Knowing he'd grounded Kin in its defense would have been much worse.

As he neared his old nest he was surprised to see no Kin riding the air. Where were they? Had some other problem befallen them? Crush Claw had said most returned after the fight. Had there been too many for a healthy nest to support? Could they have all left to look for healthier nests? If so, why weren't there more in the preytooth nest? That seemed to him to be the next best place to establish a new home.

The tall, bare mountains with their welcoming red glow were hiding behind the mists as usual. From a distance it always looked as though an angry gray cloud had settle down on the island to claim it for its own. Still there were no Kin to welcome him. Icy claws seemed to grip his middle. What was wrong here?

He turned, keeping one wing facing the mists as he began a wide circle around Fire Nest. He carefully worked himself toward the sun down side of the island at a safe distance, though safe from _what_ he couldn't say. He wanted to get down wind of it, to let scent tell him what it might. He longed to call out to his hidden Kin but dark thoughts made that feel unwise. Almost there.

Death.

The whole of the air turned to death. It started faintly but grew with each heartbeat. The further into the winds that coursed over Fire Nest he flew the thicker the scent became. Soon it was as if the air had claws of decay that raked at his nose and eyes. He made a sound he hadn't uttered since he was a hatchling; a pained squeal of distress. Two Hearts knew death intimately, knew its sounds and smells and sights. This was horribly worse. It was all the death he'd ever known come together to claim the air itself.

A sudden, unthinking fear pierced his liver and let panic sink deep into the wound. He needed to leave; his very life depended on it! He should never have come here. He had to get back to his nest, to Featherstone, to the familiar warmth and closeness of their woodcave.

He twisted his body, pumped his wings as if the very air was his enemy, turned for home. And promptly fell.

He'd done it backwards again. Before he could realize it and correct his mistake, his tail slid, losing its grip on the air. His hindquarters sank, altering the angle of his wings. With a second fearful shriek he felt his body become as a stone. He tumbled, his back to the distant waters below, now his belly. The wind tore at his midwings, pulled at his dead tail until the sticks he'd held firmly in his hind claws twisted loose and flapped at his knees. He roared in fright, this time calling for the only thing that could save him.

"Featherstone!"

Before his lungs had finished pushing the name from his throat he remembered. His rider was not with him. Control was lost, flight was lost and he was going to die.

NO!

An anger even sharper than the fear cut at him. He would not leave his rider! Death could not have him, no matter where it lay or how large it had grown. He was once Wind Rip, the only Kin who could make the winds cry in pain! He'd grounded the Great Eel! He would not die this day, this way!

Determination cleared his mind but did not change the truth of his danger. He was entirely out of control and the only way to get it back was to grip the sticks that were flailing uselessly against his body. For a moment he tried using his live tail fin and his wings as he would normally to stabilize his flight. It started to work, but the lack of surface on his tail made him slide nose over hinds once more. He saw the rippling surface of the ocean as he tumbled, far closer than was safe for such maneuvers.

But it was as he was flipped over on his back that his answer came to him. For one precious heartbeat the strands to which his sticks were connected were being blown in the direction he needed to grab them again. The memory of the last moments of struggle against the Great Eel burst across his mind.

Two Hearts tried once more to straighten out as he normally would have. Once more it failed and once more he tumbled. This time he curled his wings around his body, thrusting them toward the sky. As before, he fell upside down, his back to the rapidly approaching ocean. Instead of an enormous Kin descending on him with pure hatred in its eyes, there were only a few wispy clouds. He looked down the length of his body.

Fluttering like leaves in a storm, his sticks were almost exactly where he needed them to be to grasp them once again. Catching them proved nearly impossible, though. They moved so fast he kept missing them. They almost seemed to be trying to avoid his grasp. He spread his claws as much as he could, bent his knees, twisted his rear paws; anything to get the sticks within his reach.

He felt one slap across the pad of his left hind. He tried to catch it but missed. The one on his right did the same. This time he caught it perfectly. The left hit again but so quickly he couldn't even attempt to snag it. It battered his ankle, his knee. He blindly twitched his left paw, closing his claws as quick as he could.

He had it!

Two Hearts thrashed, trying to twist his body as he had once before. One wing was pressed against his chest by the wind, the other trailed uselessly behind him. He swung his forelegs repeatedly, trying to force himself aright. He twisted his head, his tail, flared his midwings. He saw the ocean. It was right there.

When his curled wing finally slid around and caught the winds it felt like it might come loose from his body altogether. He saw the tops of waves, the shadow of a fish and his own scattered reflection. He was certain he would hit the water.

He did, but it was at a speed and angle that allowed him to pump his wings and win free of its surface. His chest sliced through two waves, his forelegs slapping hard at their tops. Drowning was still possible if he didn't stay aloft.

He worked his wings desperately, his hind claws frozen in position to assure he made no further mistakes. Each stroke was a breath closer to survival. The one wing ached but he ignored it. He growled at the clouds, telling them he was joining them. Up and up, away from the cold nest of fish.

As he climbed he became more convinced he would live to return home. At last, with the rolling waters far below and Fire Nest well behind him, he allowed himself to believe in his success. He would eat a husk full of fish, curl around Featherstone in their woodcave and sleep in blissful peace. He had won his battle against death and fear.

First, though, he shot a blue bolt of fire before him and flew through the expanding burst of flames. It was not in celebration, however. It was to burn off the stink of fear that clung to his scales.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2013

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN: **Happy New Year, folks! What better way to celebrate than to get a new chapter posted? Well, here you go!

This one is noticeably shorter than recent chapters. There simply wasn't that much that needed to be in it. That's also why it's being posted somewhat sooner than recent chapters.

A couple quick notes: I'm still not certain how many more chapters it will take to fully tell this story the way I want to, so I don't know if I can finish it in 2013 or not. Honestly, I'm not hopeful. Which actually makes me happy.

Also, while writing this particular chapter I had an epiphany: one particular element in this story, specifically in this chapter, opened a door in my mind and let in the idea of a series of stories that could come after this one. Large, expansive stories like this one as a continuation of events that will transpire in the months to come. I really don't know how I feel about that. Do I want to still be writing exclusively HTTYD fanfics in 2017? Would anybody still be reading them? Would I turn into a dragon during the process and start eating raw fish and flaming anyone who approached my cave? I really don't know.

But I will keep the idea alive in the back of my mind until "Broken" is finished.

Thanks for reading!


	23. Two Many

Broken

Chapter 23: Two Many

He didn't like swords. They were heavy and slow. They needed constant sharpening after practice. They needed regular cleaning or they would rust. And to carry one properly he had to wear a scabbard that pulled on his belt and pinched his hip and put him in a foul mood.

Lately everything put him in a foul mood.

He tried to use that against his opponent, focusing his unhappiness into an attack that should have left the other boy reeling and begging for mercy. It didn't work. Snotlout simply took a step back, lowered his shield and declared with a frown, "You're not even trying. Jaspin could beat you."

Tuffnut bristled at the insult. "Could not. I'm way bigger than him. And older." He took another swing, putting everything he had into it. It was one of his better aimed strikes, headed right for the other boy's neck. If they weren't using dulled practice swords, Snot would have been in trouble.

Unfortunately his practice partner didn't see it that way, nor did he act that way. He casually raised his shield and batted his deathstroke aside as if it were no more dangerous than a falling leaf. Worse, he came back at him with several cuts of his own. Each impact of Snotlout's weapon on the iron-rimmed disk he carried left his arm tingling and his ears ringing. He took several steps back to get away from the attack, looking for an opening. When he thought he saw one he lowered his shield and drew back for another killing blow.

The rounded point of Snot's sword was already at his throat. He froze. Gritting his teeth, he seethed for a moment before finally throwing down his weapon and declaring, "This is stupid! I HATE swords!"

"Of course you do," was the smug reply. "That's because you don't know how to use one."

Tuffnut wanted to hotly deny that statement but couldn't. It was miserably true and only added to his resentment. "I want my billhook back," he groused. The light ash shaft tipped at one end with a spear point and a wickedly sharp bladed hook on the other was a devastating weapon in the right hands, but only against dragons. They were quick and agile. The spear point was ideal for deep penetrating thrusts against a dragon's belly and chest. The bladed hook was designed to go after a dragon's wings. The outer edge could leave long ragged rents in the thin membrane, reducing its ability to fly. It could also be punched through the wing, twisted, and the inner edge of the hook used to sever the lighter wing bones. Eirik Thorston, his father, had been a master dragonslayer with a billhook. Or so he said.

"HA! Go ahead, get another one! I'll slice it in half like the others!"

Tuffnut glowered. While a billhook was an excellent weapon for attacking and killing dragons, it was a poor choice for combat against a sword. Snotlout had already snapped his in half twice and Gobber said he was tired of fixing it. Grudgingly, he'd laid his favorite weapon down and started learning to use a sword. But it wasn't going the way he wanted. Just like everything else. He gestured impatiently at the length of steel lying in the grass. "It's too heavy."

"No," Snotlout countered. "You're too weak."

"Am not!" With a growl that should have sounded more frightening considering how angry he was, Tuffnut slung his shield at his temporary training partner. It was deflected with the same ease as his last sword stroke, mostly because it had barely reached the other boy before it hit the ground. The thing weighed more than the sword did. He grimaced at the sudden awareness of how sore his shoulder was from having carried it all morning.

"Pfff." With a move obviously meant to show off his own strength, the burly young Viking rotated his left arm and sharply raised it to bring his own shield up to the height of his head. He then quickly jerked his arm down to slide it out of the leather straps. Free of its support, the shield fell straight down and landed on its rim with a muffled thunk. Snot grabbed the upper edge with his left hand while bringing his practice sword around in a lazy arc over his head to spear its tip into the soft ground directly in front of the shield. With the brightly painted wooden disk trapped between his knees and his sword, he now grabbed its upper rim with both hands and cocked one leg out jauntily, completely at ease with his weapons, the practice session and the whole of his life. "Look at you," he said conversationally, as if they were discussing a bowl of warm fish stew. "You're as much a toothpick as Hiccup ever was."

"HEY!" That was salt in several wounds and he stepped forward without thinking, intent only on removing the arrogant expression and condescending tone from Snotlout as violently as possible. Before he could take his second step he remembered all his previous attempts to best Spitelout's son and stopped himself. He still scowled but it did no good. Snotlout remembered those attempts, too.

With a sad shake of his head, his opponent sighed. "Please. 'World's most deadly weapon?' Maybe if we were still fighting them." He twitched his head, the left horn on his helmet pointing in the general direction of Asgeirr. The Nightmare was dozing in a sunny spot on the other side of the clearing. "Sure, you _are_ good with a billhook. You might have been as good as your father some day. But we aren't fighting dragons any more." He stared intently at him, the mocking expression gone. "If this trading mission goes the way I figure it will then our next big fight will be against other Vikings. And you can bet they'll be using swords." He pointed down at the blunted practice weapon on the ground between them. "Which means you either learn to fight with one or you wind up dead."

It made an annoying amount of sense, but it didn't change one important fact. "But it's _too heavy_!"

Snotlout grunted in frustration. "Fine! So a long sword is too much for your puny muscles to handle. Try using a short sword. Or a mace." Another nasty grin spread across his wide face. "You could always ask Hiccup to make you something special."

The reference to Berk's newest hero seriously bothered him. Determined not to let on how much it upset him, Tuffnut turned his eyes to the ground. He saw the sword he'd cast aside and leaned down to retrieve it. Two more steps carried him to where his shield had rolled to a stop and he picked that up as well. He said nothing, concentrating on working his thin arm into the straps and trying not to think about all the things that were wrong with his life now.

"You might want to try using an axe. I'm sure Astrid could teach you how in no time."

Still he said nothing, focusing instead on trying to get the straps of his shield to sit comfortably on his arm. The thing was making his shoulder ache again before he even put it to use.

"You know, _Astrid_? Your _training partner_? She could teach you a thing or two about fighting."

Shield settled to his satisfaction, he lifted his sword. Holding its point down so it didn't pull at his wrist so much he shuffled a few steps closer toward Snotlout.

"Of course, she might be too busy teaching Hiccup a few things to bother with you." The leer in his voice didn't matter. He'd never speak that way around her; he knew better. All that mattered was his guard was down.

Unfortunately it didn't help. When he abruptly rushed toward him, he tried to raise the rounded end of his own weapon chest high. He intended to leave a nice deep bruise in the middle of that brawny chest to match all the ones on his own arms and ribs. Shutting him up would be nice, too.

Unfortunately the sword hadn't gotten any lighter while it was sitting on the ground. If anything it might possibly have gotten heavier, for when he tried to raise it the tip stayed stubbornly down. Instead of ramming the end over the top edge of Snotlout's shield and into center of his overly muscled body he plowed it into the center of the wooden disk. The handle of his weapon, already at a bad angle, twisted sharply out of his hands. For an instant he wanted to howl his frustration at seeing his surprise attack going as badly as everything else he'd tried so far. The next instant he realized he could at least be satisfied at having seen Snot's eyes widen marginally as he was nearly taken by surprise.

With an angry scowl his opponent raised his shield with both hands and slammed it into him. The two shields met with a loud thump an instant before Tuffnut was knocked flat onto his back. His helmet flew off and his head met the ground. He was immediately grateful he had chosen a field with nice thick grass for this meeting. There were no stars flickering in his vision as he stared up at the sky, only the heavy gray clouds that had been building all morning. _There's a storm coming_, he thought. He was more right than he knew.

Before he could get up, Snotlout tossed his own shield aside, yanked his sword out of the ground and stepped forward to plant one heavy foot in the center of the shield Tuff was still carrying. Pinned underneath, he could only watch with detached interest as the other boy's sword came swinging over and down and buried its rounded tip in the soft, grassy ground next to his left ear.

"Why are we out here," the boy standing on his chest demanded loudly.

Tuffnut supposed it was a fair question, considering 'here' was an hour's walk from Berk. He knew this for certain for he had walked it. But he wasn't interested in discussing his reasons for wanting to train with Snotlout away from the village. "Get off me," he muttered.

The foot on his shield pressed down harder, actually making it difficult to breathe. "No. Tell me why you're avoiding Astrid. You should be training with her."

He tried to push the heavier boy off but had no leverage. "I don't want to fight her. Get off me!"

Snotlout smirked as only a larger, stronger male in control of the situation could. "Afraid of getting beaten bloody by a little shield maiden?"

"She could crush you," he retorted. "In fact, she already did, in dragon training."

That ruffled him but he came back quickly with, "That didn't count, we were fighting dragons, not each other."

Ruffnut had had enough. "I don't care! Get OFF!" His legs were still free so he tried to kick Snotlout's out from under him. It didn't work, but it did distract him enough that his weight came off the shield for an instant. He finally pushed himself up and staggered to his feet. He grabbed his helmet and dumped it on his head, then found his sword and picked it up. The arm holding the shield ached even more from having been forced to support Snot's considerable weight.

"I'm serious, Tuff. Why are we doing this? You should be training with Astrid; she's your training partner."

"I don't want to fight her! She talks to her!" He went after the shieldless boy, hoping that advantage would be enough to let him score some hits. It wasn't. Snot defended himself with only his sword with the same ease he had using his shield.

Hardly showing any strain under the onslaught of Tuffnut's attack his opponent yelled with exasperation, "Talks to WHO?"

His newest attack having failed, Tuff stepped back and just glared at him. Finally he said, "Who do you think?"

Snotlout seemed genuinely confused. "Who? Ruffnut?" The expression on his face was answer enough. "Who cares if they talk? What's it matter to you?"

He didn't respond but attacked again, trying to imagine his sword was a billhook. It didn't work.

"So train with Ruffnut then," he declared, still keeping Tuff's sword from endangering any part of his person with only his own blunt weapon.

That suggestion truly enraged him and he raised his shield and charged, hoping to knock the larger boy down. A solid strike on his shield sent a spike of pain into this elbow. He didn't want to say anything but it came leaping out of his mouth before he could stop it. "I CAN'T FIGHT HER!"

Snotlout stopped moving and just stared, an incredulous expression on his less than handsome face. He frowned, obviously trying to grasp such a confusing statement before quickly giving it up. "Sheep spit. You two have been fighting your whole lives."

Tuff took a deep breath, hating every word that had to pass his lips. "That's why I can't fight her," he snarled. It came out only slightly more intimidating than his growl, which didn't move Snotlout one bit.

"You're not making any sense."

His shoulder aching fiercely, his elbow still tingling and his bruised arms and ribs demanding reparation from their attacker, Tuffnut tried the only move he hadn't used yet. He'd been practicing it whenever he could get some time alone, saving it for when he wanted to impress someone. Now it was the only thing that might get Snotlout to shut up. He turned slightly, pushed out with his shield arm to keep his opponent at bay for a second then spun completely around, hard and fast. He swung his sword in a huge arc, slashing at head height. Snotlout simply took a step back and waited for the steel to pass him by.

Once it had, the bigger boy stepped back toward Tuff. He was intensely dismayed to realize his move had done nothing more than spin him around and present his unprotected back to Snotlout. A leather booted foot sent him sailing face first into that nose-saving soft grass. That same boot was then firmly pressed into the middle of his back. He tried to turn over but the cold metal that gently kissed the back of his neck convinced him to remain where he was. It would have actually been comfortable if not for the oaf grinding his foot between his shoulder blades.

Comfort didn't matter to him at that moment, though. Snotlout had pushed and jabbed and nagged at him for almost an hour. While the time they'd spent practicing was worth it to him, he didn't think he could stomach any more of the bigger boy's taunts and questions.

He was surprised when, a moment later, the weight came off his back. He heard Snotlout take a few steps back. Tired and sore, he managed to climb once more to his feet. When he faced off with him he got another surprise. Snot shook his head.

"You know what? You're right. This _is_ stupid." He reached around behind him and drew out a coarse rag he kept stuffed in his belt. He began wiping the dirt from his practice sword. "You aren't paying attention, you aren't learning and I'm wasting my time. I'm done with this." He turned and walked toward his dozing dragon, still wiping down the length of his weapon with the rag.

Tuffnut was truly torn. He hated relying on the son of the chief's second for something he needed as badly as this. The braggart was annoying, even if he was right, and couldn't keep a secret to save his life. How could he convince him to stay and help him without revealing everything he was planning?

"Have you ever tried to fight your own shadow?" He despised the way his voice sounded winded and whiny. Regardless, Snotlout turned.

"What do you mean?"

"I _have_ been fighting her my whole life. That's why I need to train with someone else." He waited a moment, but the other boy didn't seem to catch on. He wasn't surprised. "I know how she fights. She knows how I fight. Every fight is a draw. I can't learn anything from her because she knows everything I know."

For a hopeful moment, the larger boy seemed to think about it. But then he asked, "What do you two fight with?"

Puzzled at the question, Tuffnut could only shrug. "Our fists, mostly."

Snotlout grimaced. "No, you yak-tipping twit. What weapons?"

"Oh. Billhooks."

That prompted a rising of the eyebrows and an expansive arms-out gesture that he easily translated as, 'Well, there you go.'

That did him no good at all and a moment later Snot was walking off again.

"Aren't you going to help me?"

"I tried. You failed."

Desperation seeped in and brought him to a place he never went with Ruffnut: compromise. "Fine! I'll get a short sword."

Tuffnut felt another moment of hope as the Jorgenson boy stopped once more. His thick arms fell to his sides and his head lowered a moment before he looked over his shoulder. His expression didn't look promising, though. He glared at him for a long, silent moment. Then he glanced over at his forgotten shield and back to Tuff. "You know who uses a short sword?" He moved to his shield, picked it up with the same hand that held his sword and worked it onto his left arm with no real effort. He rapped his practice blade against the iron rim of the scarred wooden disk twice and took up a fighting stance. "Mord uses a short sword. You know why?"

Tuffnut didn't like where this was going.

"Because he understands the difference. A long sword is a storm." Snotlout began swinging and jabbing, going through all the practice moves he and Mord had insisted needed mastery. "It's wind and hail and thunder. It beats on your roof, it hammers at your door." He began moving closer, still swinging his own long sword as if its weight were of no consequence even after all the time he'd just spent pounding on Tuffnut. "It reaches out and hits you no matter where you go. You can't escape it unless you just run away." He was only a few steps away now, still swinging; the rounded tip was actually whistling slightly as it slashed through the warm, moist air. Tuff raised his shield a bit, nervous at this display. "You need strength and stamina to withstand the storm and you better be able to answer with a storm of your own."

Snot stopped swinging, lowered his shield and sword and just stared at him a moment.

"But a short sword is lightning. It's power and speed and death. It hits you before you know it's happened whether you're ready or not." He casually raised his sword again, not as an attack but to measure the distance between them. He was close enough that the tip of his weapon touched the middle of Tuffnut's side. "A long sword can kill you from here. But a short sword is half as long, thinner, has a sharper point." He took a wide step forward, sliding the flat of his blade along Tuff's woolen overshirt. "You have to be _this_ close to kill with a short sword." He paused to let that sink in, then tipped his head down and looked at him from under his wide brows. "But you don't kill from here with a short sword."

Confused and still slightly nervous about what Snotlout intended, Tuff muttered, "You don't?"

"No." He took the last step. He was now standing only a hand span away, their shields bumping with a soft clatter. "You kill from _here_ with a short sword." He was still glaring at him from under his brows, practically from under the rim of his helmet. Tuffnut could smell the mutton and onions he'd eaten for breakfast on his breath. "You know how you get this close to another Viking to kill him with a short sword?"

He honestly didn't know. He'd never considered the disadvantage of reach with a short sword against its longer cousin.

"You take a _heavy_ shield with you into combat, not these flimsy little things." He bumped his shield against Tuff's for emphasis. "You pick a Viking with a nicely sharpened long sword and a pretty painted shield and you go after him. You hold your shield out and let him bash at it like a baby swatting at flies. And you push him. And _push_ him. And PUSH him!" Each 'push' was accompanied by a rough press of Snot's shield against his. The last one caused him to stumble a bit and step back. Snotlout stayed with him, his expression sliding into real aggression. "And when he starts to realize he can't get past the sturdy piece of oak you're wearing like your own skin, you SLAM it against him!"

As Tuffnut feared, Snotlout's words were mirrored with action. The larger boy shoved his shield hard against him and causing him to stagger once more. He tried to step back but Snot stayed with him step for step. It didn't even occur to him to attempt a defense with his sword. It wouldn't have mattered. He'd lost his grip on it moments ago without even knowing it. He managed to get his feet settled and push back a bit but he knew instinctively that Snotlout had stopped moving forward only because he wanted to.

"It's from _here_ you kill him with your short sword! You're too close for him to swing at you so you ignore his sword arm. All you have to do is get his shield out of the way for the last strike." He gave a wicked smile and Tuffnut finally realized just how serious Snotlout was about being a warrior. "Your shield weighs twice what his does. You angle it so the rim of yours catches his and you pull them both down. Then you punch your shiny little needle right into his heart."

Tuffnut wanted no further demonstration, but Snotlout was determined to drive his point home, literally. He didn't even notice when Snot reversed the grip on his practice sword, from holding the tip up to having its entire length dangle from his hand like a spear. With a sharp smack of the iron rims meeting, Snot's shield raked downward, forcing his own to drop. His arm felt like it had been pulled from his shoulder and his left knee erupted in pain as the lower rim slammed into it. Snotlout's fist, curled around the grip of his sword, drove straight at his chest and plowed into it with terrible force.

He was once again on his back, in the grass, staring at the cloudy sky overhead. This time the air had been driven from his lungs and he saw stars flickering around the edge of his vision. It didn't hurt at first. Not until he tried to draw his first breath. Then he felt a sharp biting pain and feared something had been broken. But as he labored to regain his breath it eased into a familiar throbbing; a sign of a colorful and long lasting bruise to come.

Snotlout stood over him, his expression once again disdainful. "Short swords aren't for weaker warriors, Tuffnut. They're for _stronger_ ones. If you ever see an enemy on the battlefield carrying a short sword, stay away from him or you'll be dead before you know what happened." He stared at him a moment, perhaps expecting a reply. Tuffnut could barely draw enough breath to stay alive; speaking was beyond him at the moment. Snot turned away and took a few steps before he stopped and turned back. "You want my advice? Go work with Ingifast for a year. Haul logs and raise masts for him. Build up your strength. Then you'll have arms that can use a long sword, not just a billhook."

Tuffnut heard Snotlout call to his Nightmare. He heard Asgeirr take to the air. Then he could only hear his own labored breathing, occasionally mixed with the pained groans that he couldn't quite subdue. The grass was still soft, the air warm enough to be comfortable. He watched the clouds grow darker and felt his mood match them.

Snotlout had dealt a serious blow to his plans. It wasn't just that he'd shown him how inadequate his fighting skills were. He'd already known he wasn't really prepared for a serious fight against other Vikings. The prospect of such a battle had already occurred to him; that was why he had asked him to come out to a field far from Berk and help teach him what he needed to know.

The bruise he'd wanted to put on Snotlout now sat firmly on his own chest, telling him he had to rethink everything. But it did no good. He had already looked for any other way to change the direction his life was headed and could find no better alternatives. Being a capable warrior had seemed the most likely way to get away from his problems. Now it looked like being a rower was all he'd be able to offer for his escape. And rowing needed just as much strength as being a warrior. He didn't know how to overcome that problem, either.

Eventually he was breathing normally and was able to sit up. The echo of Snotlout's fist drove itself into his chest with every deep breath he took. Trying not to anger the injury more than necessary, he stood up, slung his shield across his back and sheathed his sword at his hip. An ache that matched his chest was gnawing at his shoulder, trying to convince him that it was the more serious injury. He winced and muttered, "Shut up" at it. He had a long walk home. The first step caused his knee to voice its opinion of which part was worst off. "You too," he told it. Neither listened.

The shore was the easiest way to find the path home. He limped back the way he'd come until the rumpled sheet of beaten lead that was the sea came into view. Whitecaps were marching toward the shore like foaming soldiers coming to attack the broken stones of Berk's rocky beach.

Tuffnut shook his head at that image. His life wouldn't work that way. His body was made for a billhook and a dragon. He still had the billhook, but the dragon was under him instead of in front of him. And that just wouldn't work. There had to be another way. He almost wished the dragons were still attacking Berk. He'd known exactly what his future would be and found it a good one. Now... it was all murky, dark and obscure like the storm front closing in on their island.

Working his slow way along the shore, he heard a sound; a familiar sound that seemed more memory than reality. It was coming from the roiling sea. He turned his head and scanned the skies.

He found them, further along the shore. A double handful of dragons were diving among a shoal of fish they'd driven into shallower waters. As he watched, more dragons came down from the swarming darkness to lay into their hapless prey. Several different species were in that cluster, attacking over and over until their talons were full of wriggling silver shapes. Within a few minutes, all of them had all they could carry and as one they took off over the water, away from the growling gray mass of the approaching storm.

"Huh," he muttered. "Weird."

* * *

Homes had changed in Berk.

They had never been considered a sanctuary or a safe place, not when they were guaranteed to be reduced to smoldering ashes within a few years of being built. Only the Great Hall could withstand the fiery attacks of dragons, built into the side of a mountain as it was. Anything irreplaceable or of great value was stored there. When a villager's house had been leveled, those living in it would take temporary shelter within the Hall until the new house could be raised. Homes were merely where people slept, ate or held small gatherings. Sick livestock might be kept within one's house to prevent the ailment from spreading.

Without the constant loss of homes within the village, people were beginning to see them as something of value; a place to hold more than just the basic necessities of life. With no one being repeatedly forced to take residence in the Hall, people were beginning to think of their homes as a place to get away from the minor frustrations of their daily lives. They didn't congregate in the Hall as much except for meals and games.

Tuffnut had never seen his home as a sanctuary and still didn't. He might never again have to help rebuild it but he couldn't consider it a place to go to get away from minor aggravations. Most of the aggravations in his life lived in his home.

He stood some distance away, watching the lazy gray curls drifting from the smoke hole of his house and wondering if she was inside. He seldom thought of his twin as Ruffnut; 'her' was all the name she needed. No one without a twin, which was everyone, could understand that she figured as largely in his life as his mother. More, really, since Grima Thorston spent as much time out of their house as possible, mostly because of Eirik. When Grima was home she usually found things to complain about concerning how little her children helped their father. Apparently the bulk of each day she spent out among the village didn't count as 'not helping their father' because she was always trying to earn a few extra coins.

Tonight, Tuffnut seemed to recall, his mother was going to be spending most of her time with Freya in the Great Hall helping prepare the evening meal for those returning from fishing voyages or hunts. Because she was out helping cook for others it would fall to the twins to cook for their father. It was likely that wouldn't happen and equally likely Eirik wouldn't remember not eating. Grima would then loudly declare it fortunate she had brought food from the Great Hall to give him or else he would probably starve.

The whole routine was just one of many that had played out countless times within his home that was not a sanctuary. If it wasn't their mother complaining about her children, it was their father forgetting his children's names or throwing his boots at Terrible Terrors that only he could see. And if it wasn't his parents, it was her.

And lately, she was the biggest problem of all.

Regardless of how he felt about his home or his twin or his father, Tuffnut needed to talk to Eirik. He didn't imagine the conversation would go well, but sometimes the old man was surprisingly clear in his mind. It was hard to tell when he might speak as he used to. Tuffnut had come to suspect it helped when he was surprised with something he liked.

Which reminded him; Eirik had asked for a new whetstone some days ago. Tuff hadn't made any real effort to find him one because he knew his father would almost certainly forget he'd asked. But giving him one before he talked to him might give him an advantage. So instead of heading home, he went over to Mord's and asked if he had any extras. Mord spent most of his spare time honing weapons so he had whetstones practically lying around like autumn leaves.

A short time later, whetstone in hand, Tuffnut stepped into his unburnt home that was not a sanctuary and looked around for her. He didn't see her and the blanket which covered the door to their shared room was pinned back so she probably wasn't in there. Eirik, as usual, was there. He was sitting in his favorite chair with a small pile of small bones beside him. There was a large waxed ball of wool in his lap and a thin bladed knife in one hand while his other hand held his latest effort.

For all he couldn't do now, including standing straight or walking without getting dizzy, Eirik Thorston could still make the very best bone needles anyone had ever seen. The waxed ball of wool in his lap had over a dozen of them speared into it. The one he was working on now seemed to be made from the thigh bone of a squirrel. His knife patiently scraped along its length. When he was finished it would be sharp enough to poke so fine a hole in a finger hardly any blood would come. His real mastery, though, was carving out the eye of the needle. He always did that last, though Tuffnut didn't know why. He thought that if the eye got damaged before it got sharpened Eirik could save himself the time and start a new one. His father didn't seem to believe that. He also seldom broke an eye.

"Dad," he called from the door, not wanting to startle him too much. Carving needles seemed to take him far away and suddenly showing up close to Eirik without warning him was a good way to get a needle in the thigh. The older man looked up at him, squinting suspiciously.

"Throst?" His quavering voice was filled with doubt, as though he knew his mind was not whole or trustworthy. Throst was his uncle, one of the small number of villagers lost at sea in a storm rather than taken by a dragon.

"I'm your son," he announced dispassionately. Eirik would never remember. The reason was hidden under the unruly draping of greasy blonde hair. The right side of his head was slightly caved in, the result of a blow from a Deadly Nadder's tail when his twin children had only just reached their first winter. It wasn't his fault he couldn't remember. That didn't make it less frustrating to have to constantly remind his father who he was. Or diminish the anger he sometimes felt when his father didn't believe him.

"Pigknuckle?"

"What?" That was a new one. He'd never heard of anyone called 'Pigknuckle' in Berk before. Maybe it was another long lost uncle. Something occurred to him. "Do you mean Hogknee?"

Thin, straggly eyebrows rose on a high forehead and tried hopelessly to meet up with a retreating hairline. "Hogknee? What kind of stupid name is that?"

Arguing was another skill Eirik hadn't lost when his head got broken. But the arguments would quickly get childish and circular and usually ended in screaming. Eirik could scream like a five year old girl with a grown man's lungs. It was not a good combination.

Sensing things could go badly in a hurry, Tuffnut stepped forward and handed his father the new whetstone. "Here, I got this for you."

The pale, haunted eyes lit up like a child's when given a sweetcake. He stroked the flat, rough surface with calloused fingertips that bore dozens of thin scars. "Oh, oh, look! Look, I can sharpen my old knife now!" He carefully pressed his squirrelbone needle into the ball of wool and wax and spat on the stone before he began raking the old steel blade along the stone's length. His tongue stuck out from between chapped lips as he concentrated and he chewed it between the toothless gums of the right side of his mouth. His mind wasn't the only thing that had broken when the Nadder's tail caught him across the head.

Tuffnut watched his father sharpen his whittling knife, the long, deliberate strokes steady and sure. Using a whetstone properly had survived the shattering of Eirik's skull but the names of his children and wife hadn't. It made no sense to him.

The newly honed edge of the knife was tested against a scarred and calloused thumb. "Ooh, looka that!" Eirik chortled to himself as a line of blood welled up from the cut. He stuck the thumb, blood and all, in his mouth and continued to make small happy noises. When he made to continue working on his squirrelbone needle, Tuff interrupted him.

"Dad, I want to be on Rorik when it leaves."

Looking up at his son, Eirik gave him a perturbed glare. He most likely wanted to be lost in his carving again. "What? Who's that? Ronnet?"

"Rorik," Tuffnut explained patiently. He couldn't lose his temper now, not when he needed his father's permission to go. "It's Hogknee's ship. He and Spitelout and some others are going on a trading voyage soon. I want to be on it when it leaves."

His father's expression slid slowly into something like grief. His tongue pushed out of the toothless side of his mouth a few times and he blinked as though he'd been staring at the sun. "You want to leave us?" The words were quiet, pained and made him wish he was old enough to simply jump on a boat and go where and when he wanted. He hadn't wanted to discuss it, didn't want to explain it. He just wanted to go.

"Yeah." He tried to sound certain of himself, as confident he was making the right choice as any adult. But that single word came out soft and weak, almost fearful. Frowning, he cleared his throat. "Yes. I think its time I left Berk."

Eirik seemed stricken for a long moment. He looked down at the ball of wool in his lap, picked it up. "I see.

There was movement off to one side of his vision, the sound of a single footfall. She stood in the doorway of their room, her expression nearly as painful to see as their father's.

Tuffnut's gut turned to ice. This was exactly what he hadn't wanted. She had to know sometime but he'd wanted to wait until the right moment. He'd been planning the conversation, trying to find a way to work the idea across before he revealed his decision.

That was all ruined now, just like everything else. He groaned and slapped a hand to his helmet. All he'd wanted was a few minutes with Eirik alone. Why did nothing he planned work any more?

"What did you say?" It was in her voice. The pain had already tipped over into anger. She wanted to fight now. That was how they solved everything between them. They knew no other way. He looked up at her and was surprised to see that there was still pain mixed with the anger on her face. This was going to be bad.

He didn't say anything. He was still torn. He didn't know how to tell her what he wanted. He hadn't figured out how to tell anyone what he was ultimately planning. He tensed, expecting she would come at him any moment. He was always ready for that.

"What did you say?"

Her voice had dropped, roughened. Her hands were balled into fists, tight enough the tendons on her arm stood out like small sticks under the skin. Her expression was unnerving. She wasn't looking at him with the usual mix of familiarity and annoyance. In her eyes he could see the glinting edge of tears that threatened to spill and a hatred so raw it collapsed the ice in his gut to a single sharp point. It was as if he had just become her most beloved enemy and she would show him the price of wounding her in such a horrible way.

Not wanting this encounter to go the way his training had gone that morning, he tried to give the best answer he could. He hoped a half truth would serve. "I want to go on the trading mission. I want to see how other Vikings live."

Her eyes narrowed a bit, taking in his words and chewing them hard and quick. Her frown deepened and she spat them back at him. "You won't come back! You said you thought it was time you left Berk!"

Strangely enough that broke up the ice in his gut. She'd figured it all out in a second. He had pretty much expected it of his twin. They simply knew each other too well. And that just made it all the worse. But he couldn't let her change his mind, not with her words or her anger or her fists. He had to go.

"I can't stay here."

"You can't leave!" It was a forceful statement, sounding like the plain yet aggravated statements of simple truth Grima had thrown at him as a child; 'You can't eat rocks! You can't fly by flapping your arms!'

Tuffnut looked aside at Eirik. Their father was watching the exchange with a simple glee. He couldn't fight dragons anymore, but he still loved a good fight. He and his twin obliged him in this quite often. But he needed Eirik's permission and that would be hard to wrangle from his disturbed mind if all he cared about was an imminent fistfight. He would get no help from that quarter.

It was seldom he had to explain anything to his sister. They were twins and their minds so often seemed to be two halves of the same person. As kids it was crazy and scary and awesome. But now their future had been completely changed and he couldn't see how it would work anymore. If she hadn't seen it yet then maybe he could get her to understand. That meant explaining his thoughts to her, and he didn't have a lot of practice at that. So, naturally, he messed that up too.

"I have to leave! There's nothing for me to do here anymore!"

Her eyes widened. Anger edged out pain and she stared at him in disbelief. She didn't yell. But she was almost ready to come at him now; he could see it. "You want to leave all of us because you're... _bored_?"

Eirik giggled. He could see it coming, too.

She flew at him, words no longer sufficient to express her feelings. Tuffnut stepped into her attack and they went at each other. Punches, gouges, elbows to ribs, knees to guts; it was all so predictable and comforting. Or it should have been.

If he hadn't been so sore from practice with Snotlout he would have held his own the way he always did. When the Thorston twins fought, they meant it. Nothing was held back, so nothing really worked that well unless one or the other found some temporary weakness and ruthlessly exploited it.

He was definitely feeling a temporary weakness. The heel of her palm connected solidly with the side of his neck, making it painful to turn his head. A sharp elbow slammed against his head, just above his ear, dazing him further. A leg swept his feet out from under him and for the third time that day he was on his back. The smooth flagstones of the floor were nowhere as forgiving as grass and his back spasmed painfully as the breath was driven from him once more.

She'd changed. This wasn't a fight. She was trying to kill him. He was convinced of it when her foot came sweeping across his head. Luckily for him the angle was bad and all she really accomplished was to knock his helmet off and send it skittering across the room. He saw her looming, saw the mortal anger in her eyes and the shift of her hips. He heard Eirik cackling at the spectacle of it all, heard her grunt with the effort of her next strike. If she did kill him she would regret it, but not until later. Right now she regretted nothing.

Tuffnut managed to roll onto his side just as the next kick came. Her boot grazed the back of his head. After what Snot had done to him that morning he had nothing left to bring against her and precious little to defend himself. He curled up in a ball, knees against his forehead and hands laced across the back of his neck. It was survival instinct, nothing more. He covered as much of his vital anatomy as he could and waited.

She gave him three good kicks to the back, mostly against his shoulders. The last one that landed sounded a little different. He thought he might have heard a grunt of pain mixed with his father's laughter.

When no more blows assaulted him, he slowly uncurled and looked around. She was sitting on the floor, holding her foot and glaring at him fit to set him ablaze like dragon fire.

Somewhere during the attack he'd managed to get his breath back but his head was spinning and he thought me might lose his breakfast. He lay where he was, content to rest as long as she didn't move again. When he realized how hard she was gripping the end of her boot he knew she had probably broken a bone in her foot, maybe a toe or something. She was grimacing with more than just anger now.

When he was convinced she wasn't going to get back up any time soon, and that opening his mouth wouldn't immediately release the eggs and ale he'd eaten that morning, he grunted, "Are you finished?"

Her lips skinned even further back from her uneven teeth and she answered with undiminished ferocity, "No!"

Since she didn't seem capable of getting up just yet, he risked provoking her by attempting to stand. He was unsteady on his feet. His back still hurt something awful but his breathing had evened out. His knee and his shoulders both wanted his attention but he knew not to take his eyes off her. His stomach lurched once, half heartedly. He was determined his breakfast would stay down.

"I want to be on Hogknee's ship when it goes."

"Why should you leave," she demanded. "You belong here!" She winced when she tried to flex her foot.

"I can't stay here because my sword is too heavy."

She hesitated a moment, trying to work out his statement. A disturbing scowl pulled at her lips. "What happened, a Nadder get you in the head?"

He didn't care that she insulted their father. Eirik was right there, listening to every word and he wasn't able to tell he'd been insulted. He just grinned at the two of them. If anything, he was probably wishing they would go back to fighting. He wanted to fight, but he was worn out; he wanted to yell but that would probably get Eirik screaming. It was all going as bad as it had with Snotlout earlier.

Then he remembered what Snot had said, and thought he could use that to explain.

"I was going to be a dragon slayer, a true Viking. I'm good with a billhook; almost as good as he says he was." He waved vaguely at their father. "But that won't work anymore. We're gonna meet other Vikings soon and I'll never be anyone important if I stay here."

"Important?" She scoffed at the idea.

"A real warrior. Someone a chief's daughter might marry."

So now the last of it was out, everything he had planned and hoped for. Judging from her expression, Tuffnut might as well have thrown up his eggs and declared his intention to marry them. "Stupid," she rasped. "No chief's daughter is going to marry you. All you're going to do is drive Bjarki out of her mind."

Bjarki, he thought miserably. Their dragon was a large part of the problem. Of all the dragons they could have tamed, they'd had to wind up with a Hideous Zippleback. They hadn't even managed to come to an agreement about a name for the whole creature. They'd named the heads only. They'd tried several times, separately considering 'Trolleater', 'Bludenguts' and even 'Shatterbones' but neither one wanted to yield to the other's suggestion. For the most part they referred to the Zippleback as 'they' or 'them' since it always acted as if it were two distinct personalities tied into the same body. The only thing they never once considered calling their dragon was 'the twins'. That distinction had been always been their own and they were unwilling to share it with anyone, even their dragon.

Their dragon was yet another reason he wanted to leave, though it was not a comfortable thought. Nor did he have any idea how to express it. He wasn't entirely certain he wanted to express it.

Before the battle, they'd been 'the twins,' a description sometimes uttered with anger or frustration that suited, and often delighted, them. They had focused mostly on each other; how to bug one another, what the village gossips said about them or just fighting each other.

After Bjalki and Bjarki joined them, something changed. The dragon brought with them not one but two separate identities. Where there had been the two of them, now there were four. Without meaning to, the two Thorston twins became part of a foursome that he found a bit too crowded at times.

Once he realized that, he began to want something else entirely. Time away from her, away from their dragon. When he'd heard about the trading mission, he realized time wasn't enough. He wanted distance.

As much as Tuffnut loved bugging his sister, as hard as he tried to irritate her or goad her into a fight, he found no pleasure in telling her what he felt now.

"You're right. No chief's daughter will marry me." He ignored the look of slight shock on her face at the admission. "I'm not a whole person."

Confusion displaced the shock. "What?" The last tiny hope he'd entertained that she might understand disappeared with that single word. He clenched a fist and thumped his chest, having forgotten the gift Snotlout had given him earlier. It served only to anger him more.

"I'm half of a pair! I ride half a dragon! I'm not a whole _anything_!"

Being a twin had defined him from his first memory. He'd used to say there was two of him, considering her as practically a second self. When they were together, even Snotlout was wary of dealing with them. Separately they were weaker. Once dragons entered their lives, all that changed. He saw the advantages of being a single individual paired with a single dragon and wanted the same thing. Even Fishlegs had gained something from partnering with his lazy lump of a dragon. And Hiccup- well, he was the extreme example. From village embarrassment to a kind of hero no Viking had ever before seen. All because he was free to have his own dragon.

As his view of being a twin had changed, he'd hoped she would change her mind as well. He'd looked for signs, listened for clues. Instead she'd gotten distracted by the prospect of an arranged marriage. And her approach to that was the same as the one she used on him; she planned to fight. So far as he could see, she figured on being nothing more than his twin forever.

Regardless of how hard he went after his sister at times, it was very rare that he hurt her. But the pain that filled her eyes was undeniable, even to him. Guilt stabbed at him, made worse when indifference slowly took control of her expression.

"Fine," she said acidly. "Go." She struggled to her feet, keeping the end of one raised up and essentially confirming his suspicion of a broken toe. "You go marry a chief's daughter and I'll get stuck with some idiot fisherman or something." She began slowly limping toward their room.

Tuffnut hated all of this. He hated feeling like he was doing something wrong, like he'd done something to ruin her life. He even hated the idea that Eirik, in his rare clear moments, might miss his son. But most of all he hated feeling like he couldn't change his life if he wanted to. And he wanted to. As she made her way to their doorway, determined not to let any of her pain show, he made an unaccustomed attempt to put her at ease.

"What are you worried about? You think anyone is going to mess with a woman who rides a two-headed dragon?"

She stopped, and the silence in the room seemed to suck out all the air. Oddly, he suddenly realized that was the first time he'd ever referred to her as 'a woman' instead of a girl. When she glared over her shoulder at him, he knew both his reassurance and his unintended compliment had utterly failed. He'd done nothing more than bring it all back to his leaving and what that would do to them and their dragon.

She disappeared into their room and yanked the blanket over the doorway.

So that was it. Everything he'd wanted to avoid had come crashing down directly on his head. There was really nothing to do but to pick up what little was left him and go on. He glanced at Eirik. His father was busily working on his squirrel-bone needle, tongue occasionally poking from between his lips as he mindlessly chewed on it. A glimmer of hope; Eirik was settled and calm, having already forgotten what had just happened.

"Dad." No response. "Dad!"

Eirik glanced up, looking surprised to see someone in his house. "Tuffnut?"

He took a deep breath. "Spitelout, Gobber and Hogknee are going on a trading voyage. I want to be on their ship when they go."

His father stared at him a moment. He looked out the open door of their home, toward the ever present sound of the nearby surf. He looked thoughtful, as though weighing something of much importance. Scarred fingers caressed the thin blade of his knife. The pale eyes came back to meet his son's. "All Vikings should know the way of the waters."

A grin came across his face, and he said, "Great!"

The knife came up and pointed at him. "Provided Spitelout will have you." A knowing look came across his father's expression, perhaps some memory of his own first trial of adulthood that survived the Nadders' tail.

Tuffnut nodded enthusiastically, his own recent difficulties diminished by the good news. "Not a problem. Thanks!" He was out the door and headed toward the Jorgenson house to talk to the chief's second. Actually it was a problem. Getting Eirik's permission was actually just the first hurdle. He still had to talk Spitelout into letting him go with them.

He looked up at the gathering storm clouds and wondered if he had time to go back to Mord's and get another whetstone.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2013

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN: I must apologize for this one. It's essentially filler. I've been trying for months to figure out how to deal with the last characters in the Dragon Training Class from the movie and it finally hit me. I did add a few details that will figure in later in the plot and I will use Tuffnut to some degree for the climax, but yeah, this is still filler.**

** Sorry folks. The next chapter will be a major development though, I promise!**


	24. The Red Storm

Broken

Chapter 24: The Red Storm

The gods were testing him. That was the only reason he could think of for all the troubles that had plagued him. No warrior could stride boldly into the shining halls of Valhalla unless he'd been tested. Not just tested but proven, hardened and blooded in combat that demonstrated his prowess. A true Viking had to have strength, skill and cunning as a fighter to be worthy of Odin's welcome.

Apparently he also had to pay his debts.

Kettlecrack had lost several days of potential training with Grimjaws while he worked to earn some extra money. Gobber had dropped a few less than subtle hints that he needed to repay what he owed for his saddle. He'd nearly lost his temper with the smith but the painful throbbing in his nose and upper lip had reminded him where things stood. He'd just learned how to train his Nightmare to breathe fire at a target of his choosing. But that small victory had only come after finding out the hard way how impractical it was to use ordinary weapons from a flying dragon's back. At that point he had set his mind to the task of teaching his dragon to be what Stoick doubted it could be: a weapon worthy of a true Viking.

Gobber's calm but persistent request that he be repaid upset his plans. Instead of putting his discovery to use with Grimjaws he'd had to spend several days out on Tonna, helping Eyvind on his latest fishing voyage. After that he'd spent an evening doing Kabbi's bucket detail for him, collecting sheep dung and any brains Freya might have kept from the occasional butchering she did at the great hall. He also made a quick circuit of the woods near the edges of the village for the infrequent pile of hardened dragon droppings. Like birds, dragons often relieved themselves on the wing, letting the semisolid castings fall where they would. Unlike birds, they did not do so within the boundaries of Berk.

Having brought those unpleasant materials to Kabbi's tannery, he'd gone to Gobber with the few coins he'd collected and slapped them into his meaty palm. "You'll get the rest as I'm able." As it was, Kettlecrack would be dining for the rest of the week on little more than the stew he could make with some of the fish he'd been paid by Eyvind. He could not afford bread or any other meat after handing over what he'd earned to the smith.

The look on Gobber's face had puzzled and angered him. It was as if the patchwork man had known how little money he could make in any given day and wanted to remind him how much he still owed for the saddle. The hulking blonde had never been a friend to him but neither had he openly antagonized him. He might have said something to him but the lingering pain of his broken nose reminded him that he needed to get back to training his dragon, so he kept silent. He'd never been much good at keeping his temper, but he'd never had such important reasons to let minor slights pass by unanswered. Gobber would see, just like Stoick would see. Once he was able to get Grimjaws suitably prepared, he would change all their minds.

Finally free, if only temporarily, of his obligations to others, he set out to saddle his Nightmare. He opened his door and stepped out, his belly full of cod and the expensive piece of leatherwork under one arm. The late morning sun slanted down full in his eyes and he belched lightly as he shaded them with a calloused hand. Scanning the area around his house, he saw no sign of Grimjaws. He frowned, realizing he should have expected yet another hindrance to his plans. He looked up, searching the skies over his head. No dragon.

"Great lazy lizard," he muttered. "Where are ye?" A glance at the roof of his house found it unoccupied. Grim's favorite napping spot was as empty as the sky. He sighed, his patience once again stretched by forces beyond his control. He placed two fingers to his lips and blew a sharp, shrill note. Then he dropped the saddle and clamped both hands to his mouth. He hadn't thought whistling could hurt his healing lips so badly.

When the hot, tearing pain subsided he looked at his fingers. Small traces of blood stained a few of them. He scowled at the sight, which pulled at the very wound he'd just re-injured and made him grunt in pain. It was not shaping up to be a very good day. He sat down on his steps to brood.

Luckily for both of them he didn't get to simmer very long. A few minutes after he'd sat down Grimjaws came sliding over the nearby trees to light upon his roof. Kettlecrack stood, looking up at him and wondering if the Nightmare had heard his whistle and come or simply happened by and saw his owner. He supposed it didn't matter just then but it would have been nice to know that the dragon could be summoned easily. Once his lips fully healed, that is.

The long head and spreading horns came snaking down to observe him. The nostrils flared as the red and yellow beast took his scent. The forked tongue flicked out briefly to scrub at the thin lips and projecting teeth. That's when he noticed the faint odor of blood and the slight staining on the tip of the pointed snout. Grimjaws had just eaten. He wasn't wet and there was no hint of the salt or slime that clung to his scaled hide when he went fishing. He must have taken a boar or a deer.

Would that make the training harder or easier, he wondered. Would he still be able to get the Nightmare to go after a prey animal when its belly was full and it had no desire to feed? Only one way to find out, he decided.

Kettlecrack was heartened when his dragon responded to him holding up the saddle. The undersized beast slowly climbed down from his roof and lowered its head and neck to let him strap the device in place. He paused a moment to consider what, if anything, he might need to take with him on this short journey. He lowered one hand to the sheathed hunting knife at his hip. He had no other weapons on him at the moment. Perhaps he ought to bring a spear or other traditional hunting weapon.

No, he realized. This was about training the dragon to hunt for him, and ultimately to attack for him. Grimjaws was the only weapon he would need this afternoon.

As he swung his stout legs over the saddle and placed his feet into the stirrups, Kettlecrack heard a deep, ominous rumble. Glancing around, he suddenly realized the sky to the east was no longer the bright blue it had been earlier, lit by the late spring sun. It had darkened across a significant portion of the horizon. Squinting unhappily at the prospect of having his plans ruined once again, he yelled, "Grimjaws, up!" He braced his arms hard, clenched his fists onto the saddle's handholds. The first downward stroke of his dragon's wings filled his ears while his eyes were tightly shut. He flexed his elbows and shoulders to take the sudden, powerful upward lunge without smashing his face into the unyielding scales of the Nightmare's neck.

Moments later, when the nausea-inducing sight of solid land dropping away in mere seconds was no longer a threat to his stomach and its contents, he opened his eyes. Below, Berk shrank like an ice chip lying on the heated stones of his hearth. To the east a looming wall of dark gray clouds towered. He took its measure and knew for certain his plan to head toward the Snapspine islands was unworkable. Luckily there were other places to hunt. Greslardin was not far to the west and with luck they could be back before the storm hit Berk.

* * *

It had started out as such a good day. Yrsa had spent the morning with Mord learning more of the basic sword skills he would need to be a warrior when he was grown. He always liked getting lessons from Mord. The elder warrior never made him feel like his smaller size or his age was a problem. It was true that he would not be able to carry a short sword for several years yet. And both his parents were on the small side, making it likely that he would never get to be a big, strong Viking like Mord or Chief Stoick. But that didn't diminish his longing to do well, to become a great warrior and protector of the tribe.

After his lesson, however, things had gone sour. There'd been an argument in the gathering circle between Dotta Lundby and Inga Ornolf about missing sheep and dragons. Inga had said some hateful things about Bitterbug. Even though the Nadder wasn't his dragon, he had wanted to defend Herdis' pet. He'd known better than to expect either woman to listen to him, though. He could only remember the great thrill he'd had riding on the Nadder's back as Herdis led them through the village. Bitterbug had always seemed a calm, trustworthy creature to him. She'd even taken a fish right from his hand without leaving as much as a scratch, under Herdis' watchful eye.

After the fight had been broken up by Spitelout he'd headed to Signy's house. As he walked he could see large gray storm clouds building in the east. Berk would soon be lashed with heavy spring rains. That wouldn't have mattered except that he and Signy were to be on shepherd duty again that evening.

He found her filling a bucket from a rain barrel and spoke to her. He wanted her opinion on what Inga had said about Bitterbug. That's when the older girl had told him that Bitterbug wasn't the only dragon missing from Berk. Seasquirm was gone as well, Oddlog's Gronckle. So was Grubstick, another Gronckle that belonged to Signy's cousin. Lots of dragons were missing now and no one knew why.

That had bothered Yrsa a great deal. Now that dragons were pets he'd very much looked forward to taming one of his own when he was old enough. How could he do that if all the dragons went away?

He was still preoccupied with those dark, gloomy thoughts during the afternoon as the storm broke open across Berk's many roofs. There was barely enough light in his house to help his parents wash the latest batch of wool they'd taken from their three sheep. With the windows closed to keep out the wind driven rain, they'd had to light several candles just to see. Boredom set in quickly and between the powerful thunderbolts Thor was tossing about and the tedium of cleaning the wool, Yrsa's mood was as bleak as the world outside.

The storm cleared just before supper. Wanting to get out of his house for a bit he'd wandered through the middle of the village, looking for the dragons he'd become accustomed to seeing. To his dismay, Signy was right. Many of them were gone. A few familiar ones remained, mostly ones who belonged to villagers. Where could the rest be?

Supper was dismal, even though they were having a favorite of his: seagull stew. It just didn't seem fair that all the dragons were going to disappear before he got a chance to tame one. He had hoped to find a real pretty Nadder like Bitterbug. After supper, he strapped on his wooden practice sword and headed for the northeast field to take his turn being a watchful shepherd. The storm had left much of the ground soft and muddy.

Signy was already there, talking to Oddlog and Spitlout. The two of them had seal skin cloaks with hoods. Their boots were thoroughly soaked, caked with mud and grass. Their eyes were heavy and they looked tired. The hair that stuck out from their hoods was wet and straggly. It was obvious neither had enjoyed shepherd duty during the storm. Oddlog, though, seemed as miserable as Yrsa was. It wasn't too hard to guess why. As he approached he caught the middle of exactly the conversation he'd figured they were having.

"... everywhere. He's just gone."

"Maybe you didn't feed him enough." Spitlout was often trying to figure out why things went wrong without knowing anything about what was being discussed.

"He's a dragon," was the sarcastic reply. "He can go hunting on his own whenever he wants."

"But it doesn't make sense," Signy insisted. "Why would all the dragons up and go away at the same time?"

"Not all the dragons left," Yrsa chimed in. "There's still some in the village. I just saw them this afternoon."

"But not like there used to be. Even most of the stragglers are gone."

Oddlog pushed back the hood of his cloak and rubbed the back of his neck, a habit he'd picked up from his father, Grumblemud. "My dad says they may have gone to lay their eggs, since it's springtime." He grimaced, making his prominent front teeth stand out even more.

"I wanna find some Night Fury eggs!"

Everyone rolled their eyes. "We know, Spit, we know." Signy glanced at Oddlog. "That does kind of make sense, don't you think?" She looked at Yrsa, making it obvious she wanted him to agree.

"I guess," he said. "So, maybe your dragon's off sitting on a nest or something."

Oddlog looked disgusted with that idea. "Seasquirm's a boy! Boy dragons don't sit on nests of eggs!"

"How do you know that," Signy challenged. "For all you know dragons may sing and dance and bake inkberry pies!"

"Oh, don't be stupid," Oddlog groused. He abruptly turned and walked off. Spitlout took off after him, once again declaring his anger at the fact his duck eggs didn't hatch out and that he wanted to find Night Fury eggs instead. The older boy said nothing as they disappeared.

"Inkberry pies?" Yrsa shook his head. "That wasn't very smart."

Signy turned on him, a strange look on her face. "You hush. You don't know either." Her voice sounded angry but also worried. She waved a hand in the direction Oddlog had taken. "Grumblemud is probably right. It's spring time, the birds are nesting. The dragons probably are, too."

Yrsa blinked in surprise. "I suppose."

"You'll see," she declared. "By the end of spring all the dragons will be back and they'll have their babies with them. We'll be up to our noses in dragons!" Her voice gave a strange hitch when she said, 'dragons.'

He thought about it a moment. "You miss Bitterbug, too."

She didn't look at him. "Yeah," she said quietly. "And someday I'll..."

He knew what she meant by that, too. "Yeah, me too." He put his hand on the hilt of his wooden sword, feeling unexpectedly awkward. "What kind are you going to get?"

She didn't answer right away but he was pretty sure she already knew the answer. Eventually she mumbled, "Nadder. They're so beautiful." She closed her eyes a moment. "Have you ever looked closely at the scales around their eyes? There are so many colors. It's beautiful."

He hadn't but now he wanted to. And he might never get the chance, unless Grumblemud was right.

Before he could say anything else Signy said, "Come on, we have sheep to watch."

The pens were still in good shape; all the thunder hadn't spooked the sheep enough to break any walls down. They counted the animals in each pen and found them all present. Signy glanced at the warning bell, hanging from its stout wooden post. She picked up the stone hammer that sat directly under it and gave it a light touch. The high, clear note gave them reassurance.

They took their usual place across from the pens, sitting upon the rock that was conveniently shaded by the trees surrounding the field during the few weeks of summer. Now those newly leafed trees simply kept the warming heat of the sun away from them. The rain had left a distinct chill in the air. Yrsa's mind inevitably went back to what Signy had told him earlier that day.

"What if they don't come back?"

She turned her head slightly but didn't look at him. He saw her frown.

"They'll come back." She didn't sound very confident.

"But what if they don't?"

She grunted and turned to face him. He couldn't be sure if she was mad or worried. "Look, do you want them to go away? Do you never want to see Bitterbug or Grubstick or... or even Toothless again?"

Yrsa winced, hating the very idea. "No!"

"Then they'll be back, OK?" She waved a hand in the general direction of the village. "They're off laying eggs or building nests or whatever it is they do and they'll be back. Then you'll feel all foolish for having worried so much about nothing!"

He wanted that to be true. He wanted to believe that she, being older than him, knew something more about dragons than he did and could explain what was happening. But her voice and her eyes told him she was just as confused and worried as he was, so all her words did no good. And something she'd just said made even less sense.

"Toothless didn't go, did he? He _can't_ go, not without Hiccup."

Signy sighed. "No, Toothless didn't go. Can we talk about something else?"

Taking comfort in that small bit of good news, he thought about the possibility of all the dragon's going off to lay eggs.

"What do you think Night Fury eggs look like?"

His friend looked up at the darkening sky. She thought a moment. "Black. Shiny and smooth like a beach stone." She actually smiled. "And warm. Like bread from an oven."

He liked that idea. He took that image a step farther and thought of them hatching. "I'll bet Fury hatchlings look like black kittens."

Signy's smile widened and she looked at him, nodding. "Yeah, all round and flopping over each other. They probably make cute little noises, too. Little squeaky growls."

From there they speculated on the nature and appearance of the hatchlings of other dragon breeds. Gronckles, they decided, had eggs that looked like plain old rocks and the hatchlings would look much like the eggs themselves. Nightmare eggs just had to be red and orange and too hot to touch while the creatures within would look like featherless gulls with a bad case of sunburn.

The sun was nearly gone behind the trees when Signy's father and older brother came walking up. Each had an armload of firewood and her father had an unlit torch laid across the top of his burden. He greeted his daughter cheerfully and dumped the wood by the small brazier that stood amidst the sheep pens to give a bit of light and comfort to the shepherds. He quickly got the torch lit and started a fire within the brazier. The rest of the wood lay close by. The small chore done, the two of them headed back down after a friendly wave.

Their conversation dwindled to nothing after that. The sky soon filled with stars and a big crescent moon that gave off almost as much light as their fire. Yrsa and his companion wound up close to the brazier to ward off the chill of the evening. They stared at the flames, despite having been warned often about how it would ruin their night sight. Neither expected to see anything coming out of the darkness to attack the sheep. Despite what some of the adults were saying, they didn't believe dragons were likely to bother them.

Full night had come but the darkness was only as deep as the stars and moon would allow. The two shepherds tried to find other things to talk over but wound up listening to the soft singing of crickets and the occasional call of a sea bird instead.

Signy suddenly stood up. She said nothing but Yrsa knew what she was about. He watched with little interest as she headed to the edge of the field for a moment's privacy. Realizing he had the same need, he stepped away from the brazier and took up a stance on the opposite side of one of the sheep pens.

The sheep had never complained before when he washed down part of their fence, but they did now. They called and shuffled and started acting skittish.

"Pff. What do you care?" Finished, he began walking back around the pen to stand near the brazier. Before he could even leave the pen's side, he heard other sheep in other pens baaing and calling. Those in the pen nearest him started running in circles, becoming more and more alarmed. "What's with you?"

A heavy thud warned him. He looked up toward the glowing brazier and saw the large body strangely lit by the flickering orange light. Deadly Nadders lost a lot of their visual appeal by firelight, but they were still impressive to see. This one stood among the sheep pens, legs flexing slightly and wings partially unfurled as thought ready to return to the air in an instant.

Yrsa smiled. While the sheep didn't understand, he knew that whoever claimed this dragon was a fortunate Viking. Their pet was still within the village. He wondered if it was Bitterbug. Without the distinctive coloring to aid him, he had a hard time telling one from another.

He slowly approached the creature, holding out one hand and making low, soothing sounds. It watched him, tipping and turning its head to track his movements. It took a single step toward him.

"That's it. How're you doing? You lonely?"

It charged. Yrsa could only stand and watch, baffled by the display. It lunged forward with its head low, its jaws open and its wings spread wide. It only took a few steps but when it stopped it hissed loudly at him before it gave an ear-splitting shriek.

He froze. This obviously wasn't Bitterbug. It must be a wild dragon. But what was it doing among the sheep pens?

As soon as the question occurred to him, the answer followed. The missing sheep Chief Stoick had told them about must have been taken by this dragon. It was the thief!

Yrsa pulled his wooden sword from his belt, feeling foolish but still comforted by the weight of it in his hands. He held it before him, trying to keep his shaking arms from making the point bob around.

"Y-you stop right there. You can't have those sheep."

The Nadder raised its head and looked down on him. With its rainbow scales touched by both firelight and dim moonbeams, it looked as much a monster as they ever did when he was younger. It took another step toward him, towering over him. One great eye reflected red and orange and pale white light as it examined him. It growled loudly, from both its throat and its chest.

Another thud. He gasped as he turned his head slightly and caught sight of the Gronckle that had just arrived. The moonlight did nothing to flatter its lumpy brown and green form and the brazier gave it the same intimidating glow to its eyes as it did the Nadder's.

"W-what are you-"

Thud. Another Gronckle.

Fear started to crawl up from his stomach to his throat. He didn't know what was going on but it felt very bad. His arms shook harder and the tip of his ash weapon danced. "Y-y-you..."

The last thud was a Monstrous Nightmare. It wasn't on fire, but it stood next to a pen full of panicked sheep and stared at him as though it wondered if he would be more fun to play with.

Mixed with the growling of the dragons around him and the hysterics of the penned animals, Yrsa heard a sound. A voice. Signy had called his name. He looked around frantically for her but couldn't see her. He wanted to shout, to warn her; he wanted to run. He didn't know if he could do either.

Looking back at the Nadder standing directly in front of him, he was shocked to see its scaly muzzle was now only a hand's breadth away from the quivering end of his sword. Its eye bore into him and for one foolish instant he could only think, 'I can't see any colors.'

Then the huge maw opened with a withering screech and slammed shut on the end of his wooden sword. With a casual flick of its enormous spiky head it ripped the training weapon from his hands and tossed it far away. A scream of his own burst from his lips as he took to his heels and ran past the large reptilian body. "Signy, run!"

This time he heard it clear; her voice, nearby and confused. "What?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the post with the warning bell and the hammer beneath it, painted an eerie gray and highlighted with touches of flickering orange. He changed directions and drove himself toward that all important goal. Without looking at her he managed to shout once more to Signy, "Run!" He hoped she would do as he said.

The screaming got worse. The sheep were beyond panic now. They were in pain; they were being attacked. Yrsa pumped his legs as hard as he could, determined to sound that bell before one of the wild dragons got him. He was gasping as he neared it, the rasping echo in his head almost enough to drown out the awful noise of slaughter behind him. When he got close enough he dove for the stone hammer, clenching it in both hands. He rolled to his back and raised it above his head. He looked up to make sure of his first strike.

As his eyes traveled up he saw the field, lit in ghostly colors. None of the wild dragons had followed him. They cared only for the sheep. He saw Signy standing off to one side, safely away from the death that had come to visit the pens. Already the Nadder was taking off, a sheep clutched in each taloned foot. The Nightmare had chosen the one it wanted and taken its head in its toothy jaws. The body dangled at a grotesque angle, the legs kicking feebly.

Yrsa hesitated. He knew what it meant to sound the warning bell. It meant he would never again ride on Bitterbug's back as Herdis walked her through the village. He would never get the chance to tame a dragon of his own.

It meant Berk would soon be burning once again.

With all his strength he slammed the bell with the hammer, over and over.

* * *

Greslardin had been carved from the sea with straight, clean strokes. The pitted and worn walls that faced the cold, restless sea formed no natural harbor. There were no beaches or piers around the island's vertical shores. Most places that a ship might approach had dangerous underwater obstacles that would doom those foolhardy enough to attempt a landing. It had taken many years and half a dozen wrecks to find the only reasonable way onto the island. There was a point, many boat lengths away from Greslardin's weathered face, where a ship could drop anchor and a few Vikings could climb into a skiff. That skiff could then be rowed to a rock fall that could be climbed up onto the green wilds of the island.

For this reason the people of Berk hunted the wild sheep, deer, boar, yaks and seabirds that lived on Greslardin without ever considering living there themselves. With no good way to get to the water or tend their ships, its only value was as a hunting ground. It was smaller than Berk with only a few lumpy hills and barely enough fresh water to keep its wildlife alive.

Getting to Greslardin was far easier now that dragons could provide the means to reach its bountiful surface. The grass, brush and trees provided all that was needed for hunters and prey alike. Kettlecrack remembered the first time he'd clambered out of his father's skiff onto the rock fall and worked his way up to the plateau. It had seemed a hunter's dream. Now, approaching it from the air, mounted on the back of a predator that could take any prey he chose, he felt that same sense of wonder. For this hunt, anything Greslardin had could be his.

He had Grimjaws circle the island once, looking for obvious signs of where to begin his task. Seabirds screeched at them and scattered as they worked their way around. As they came back to their starting point, Kettlecrack happened to look up and to the east. The huge storm that had followed them from Berk was moving faster than he'd realized. It looked as though it was already soaking his home. This hunt would not be a long one, but it didn't need to be. He wanted only to prove that his dragon could be used as a weapon against targets on the ground. His 'eel' to 'kill' method of training had worked, finally, against his wooden targets. Now he wanted the ultimate success in hand. Stoick, Gobber and the rest would soon see he'd been right all along. Berk would become powerful and he would become a warrior fit for Odin's great halls. There might even be a chance for him to take Stoick's place, when the time was right.

Movement caught his attention; something darted from one large clump of brush to another. Kettlecrack frowned slightly. The only restriction he'd placed on himself was to limit where he would allow Grimjaws to spray his sticky, burning sputum. Nightmare fire, like most dragon fire, was powerful but indiscriminate. He'd realized it would be unwise to allow his mount to light a target too close to anything he didn't want burned. Unfortunately this bit of wisdom came only after he'd lost his shield and the bag holding his lunch during his last training session with Grim.

Unless he was willing to risk setting half of Greslardin ablaze, he'd have to find a target that was out in the open.

After several more circuits of the island, it became obvious that his Nightmare's presence was causing the game animals to hide. He was going to have to flush one out somehow. At first he planned to do it himself from the ground, but then he realized as soon as the prey broke cover he would need to remount Grimjaws. That would take too long. So he needed to drive the game out into the open while still riding. When he remembered his failed attempt to hit targets on the ground with a sword from his dragon's back, he knew he had the answer.

Kettlecrack guided his Nightmare higher up, keeping an eye on the approaching storm. They circled several more times, waiting for a sign. The instant he saw movement, he brought his dragon into a dive, aiming for the bushes he'd seen rustling. The first attempt did no good, and he had to guide Grim into a lower dive on his second attempt. This time the panicked boar shot out of its hiding place and bolted for the next nearest clump of brush. He let go of one handhold on his saddle, pointed to the retreating animal and bellowed, "Kill!"

Grimjaws failed to live up to his name. The undersized reptile snarled and groaned but didn't even seem to notice the wild pig as it scrambled for safety. He balled up his large fist and drew back. The image of his father standing over a dead sheep while his head rang and rattled came to him. It forced him to grit his teeth, open his hand and slowly grip his saddle. Grim was a dragon, not a sheep. He'd already thrown his rider once and could easily do it again.

Having seen where the boar got to, he set his dragon into another dive. Once more he commanded the Nightmare to fire the prey. This time Grimjaws seemed to understand but wasn't looking for the animal when it scurried back to its original hiding place and so missed it. It looked around, not seeming to understand where its target had gone.

Kettlecrack looked at the small island of bushes surrounded by green grass. Time, he decided, to be more direct. Without bothering to dive at the ground, he shouted, "KILL!"

The boar's death was not clean but it was fairly quick. At least it stopped moving and squealing rather soon after its sanctuary became an inferno. He now knew he'd been right. The proof was in the fiery swirl of burnt leaves, charred twigs and scorched earth. He wanted to bring the boar back to show the chief his idea would work, but he had to wait until the fire died down. He glanced to the east warily. By now the storm had obviously swept past Berk's shores and was closing in on them, its wide swath of black clouds obscuring the horizon. Greslardin had no cover to speak of. He would have to find shelter somewhere else, and quickly.

To speed things up he found a dead branch nearby long enough to serve his needs. He began poking around the still burning remains of the bushes where his prey had tried to hide. First he thrashed the bushes, trying to knock the fire down a bit. That did nothing useful. Worse, it launched burning embers that threatened to spread the fire. Then he poked around in the smoldering tangle of low limbs until he found the boar's body. He was able to push the carcass out enough that he could grab hold of it. He grabbed a limb and pulled it far enough away that the fire didn't bother him.

It was not a pleasant smell; the mix of sulfurous dragon flame, burnt hair and blackened flesh was a vivid reminder of the raids of the recent past. Soon, though, it would be the scent of conquest. Any village they came across would know it as intimately as Berk did and would know they were beaten.

He should have felt pride at his accomplishment. He should have felt joy at knowing Valhalla was once again within his reach. All he felt was a grim satisfaction. As he stared at the burnt corpse of the pig he found himself wondering what the next obstacle would be. As annoyingly difficult as it had been to get Grim to fire a target on command, it felt too easy somehow. There had to be some hidden price for getting what he'd wanted. He found himself worrying what the price might be and if he could afford to pay it.

He picked up his prize and moved to his dragon. Grimjaws turned his head to sniff at his handiwork. He didn't seem to approve of something for he backed up a step from Kettlecrack. "Stand still," he demanded. He closed in again and tossed the carcass across the back of the narrow saddle. He kept a few short pieces of rope tied to it after having seen others secure small loads the same way. It took only a moment to tie it in place.

It was time to return. He climbed onto the saddle and prepared himself to fly home. The look on Stoick's face would be worth all the efforts, all the trials and setbacks. "Grimjaws, up!"

That long, sinuous neck curled around on itself and the toothy snout drew in large, gusting breaths. At first he thought the eyes were locked on the saddle or him, but then he realized the dragon was staring at the scorched carcass behind him. He turned and looked, noticing only then that the boar was dripping blood and fluids across the base of Grimjaws' neck. "Eh, you can eat him after we show the chief. Up!"

The dragon growled and grumbled and didn't set off flying. And still it eyed the boar.

"GRIM!"

The Nightmare's gaze shifted, met his uneasily. Kettlecrack thrust his arm skyward.

"UP!"

Reluctantly the head turned around and the wings spread. He had just enough time to brace himself and close his eyes until they were properly airborne. Once they were aloft he reached for the larger set of horns sprouting from the narrow skull and turned them toward Berk.

This time his dragon's reluctance was shared. The wall of black clouds was rumbling as loudly as any dragon and was lit from within by the bright thunderbolts Thor was hurling at his island. Still, they had to get home. Flying through some rain wouldn't hurt either of them.

Thor had other ideas.

Gusting winds took hold of them, making the back of a dragon feel like a bad place to be so far above the water. Grimjaws was working his way east, trying to get them home. It was obvious to Kettlecrack that he was fighting hard to make headway. They rose suddenly and then dropped. The Nightmare hadn't done it; it was the winds. The air was twisting and coiling like a maddened snake and several times Kettlecrack feared he would be thrown off as the dragon fought to reach Berk.

When he looked down and realized Greslardin was sliding away in front of them, he knew they were being blown away from it and their home. Grim simply wasn't powerful enough to fight the storm. They would have to seek shelter to the west.

From the air, islands were harder to identify. At least to a Viking used to seeing them from the prow of a ship they were. Their size was hard to determine, as well as their distance. To someone like Kettlecrack, who had never journeyed farther then the few hunting grounds spread out to Berk's west, the idea of being blown beyond his reckoning was not a comfortable one. Navigating those few islands he knew west of Greslardin was essentially impossible from the air. He had to swing north and south, looking desperately for a place they could land and take shelter. The winds were still driving them west and the constant thundering threat behind them gave an edge of real fear to the search.

When he spotted the barren spike of a fairly large island looming up before them, Kettlecrack took to it without hesitation. It was a rocky, jagged lump of a place, with a skirt of mist blowing away from the rugged spire in its center. There would be no hunting here. He could see nothing growing anywhere. But he could see the dark spots of caves and breaks where he and Grimjaws could take shelter until the storm passed.

His dragon seemed to agree. Before he could actually aim the Nightmare for the gray shores it fell into a gentle downward glide. He spotted a large opening in the side of the desolate peak and nudged them toward that goal.

As the broken stones that made up the bulk of the island slid by underneath them, something about the place struck Kettlecrack as familiar.

* * *

The roof was still wet but he didn't mind. His trousers were good leather and would resist soaking up any water well enough to keep him comfortable. It was better than sitting on the ground which was now all muddy. His Nadder preferred the wet to the mud as well, and the two stared out at the clear evening sky.

Jaspin was actually the only one gazing at the stars that had come out after the storm had passed. Bitequick was asleep. As asleep as any Nadder got, at least. That breed of dragon tended to sleep often and lightly. And they never slept in the mud.

His eyes were full of the bright splendor of the sky. His ears, however, heard nothing the deep, comforting sound of Bitequick's breathing as she rested. His left hand gently caressed her neck while his right helped prop his hips against the slope of the roof. Beauty in the sky, warmth under his hand; it was a wonderfully calming way to watch the last of the evening's light slip under the horizon.

He'd felt a real need for comfort after the storm. His unease had been growing for some time and the ferocity of the rain and thunder had been tremendously unsettling. He'd wished he could have Bitequick inside with him. Neither his father nor his dragon had been keen on that idea. Some months ago Hogknee had said, once and plainly, that dragons belonged outside. The one time he tried to let his dragon inside while his parents were away, she'd stuck her snout through the doorway, sniffed and backed off.

So while the thunder had rumbled and lightning had flashed, he could only worry for her and wish he understood why so many things seemed to be going wrong lately.

He still missed fishing on Rorik, feeling the ship work her way up and down the waves while the wind rolled over them and sang in the ropes. He'd actually seen her grabbed up and battered against a rock by a large wave that came out of nowhere while Ingifast was testing his work. It hadn't been luck that had him near the docks, watching Rorik cruise around the harbor. He'd known she was being taken out and had wanted to see. After the collision, he'd feared his father's ship would slide under the waves and he would never get to go fishing again.

Dragons were disappearing, too. After the battle they'd numbered so many he couldn't possibly have counted them all. Now there were only a few, scattered among the houses of Berk. He felt lucky he was among that dwindling number whose reptilian companion had, so far, remained.

Some people were grumbling about the dragons. They said food was coming up missing and it seemed the evidence was against them. He couldn't say with complete certainty that his Nadder was innocent, but she never acted like she wanted for food. She had never tried to take anything around his house that was meant for Jaspin's family.

The only thing that was really going the way he wanted was his sword training. His blunt steel weapon rested in the scabbard held by his belt and was twisted around to lay behind him on the roof, out of his way. Snotlout's random attacks had helped get him past his reluctance to swing it in defense of himself and his dragon. Now when he chanced to see the Jorgenson boy around the village he would lift his chin and stare at him, daring him to come after him. He never did, of course. That was the point.

Mord had recently said that Jaspin would soon be ready to train with a real sword. He was looking forward to that. Something about handling a blade just felt... right to him. Once Snotlout had stripped away his reservations about attacking and defending against someone he knew, he was able to see more and more of what Mord told him. Somehow it all made _sense_ now. It might have sounded strange, if he had ever said it aloud, but he was beginning to see himself as being a fisherman and a dragon rider and a warrior. Once, long ago, he might have thought being any one of those things would be more than enough for him. Now he couldn't imagine not being all of them at once.

A slim form caught his attention as it moved in the weak moonlight toward his house. He recognized Herdis Lundby right away. He liked Blacktongue's daughter; they had often talked together about their dragons after they both tamed Nadders. It wasn't the same now that Bitterbug was missing. The fair haired girl with an extra helping of freckles always seemed sad now, as if she had lost something far more important than a large pet. Jaspin could entirely understand the feeling.

It was hard to comfort her, though, when Bitequick was still with him. He didn't really know what it would be like to lose his dragon; he just knew it would be terrible and that he didn't know what he would do if it happened.

Herdis stopped in front of his house. She didn't seem to notice him on the roof. She stared at his front door and looked undecided about knocking. He set his own discomfort aside and announced his presence. "Up here."

Her face lifted and she took a step back, slightly startled to find him so near yet out of her sight. He heard her quietly exclaim, "Oh." She stared at him for several moments, apparently undecided about whatever had brought her to him. Her hand came up, palm forward. Then it dropped a bit. She raised it again and managed only a softly uttered, "Can I..."

Jaspin nodded. "The woodpile in back. Dad believes in stocking up."

She moved around the house, out of his sight. He heard her climbing the pile of firewood, heard a few pieces shift slightly under her weight as she reached the top and moved to the roof. She sat on Bitequick's other side. Still she hesitated. She bit at her lower lip.

"It's ok. She knows you."

It was unlikely the Nadder was not aware of Herdis' presence. This was borne out as the girl's hand gently stroked the smooth scales of her neck. The large head tilted slightly and the eyes opened a crack. The pupils stood out easily, the moonlight giving her eyes a radiant glow. They could see a subtle shift of those dark spots as Bite confirmed who was laying hands on her. Then she closed her eyes, huffed a larger breath and slid back into a light doze. Herdis smiled wistfully and said exactly what he hoped she wouldn't.

"You're so lucky."

The warmth under his hands didn't feel quite as good now. He looked down at the edge of the roof, wishing Bitterbug would just show up; come flying down right then and land in front of the house, mud and all, and squawk at them in that happy, sing-song bird-like way Nadders had. But he didn't think the answer to that problem would come any easier than the answers to any of the other problems. So he responded the only way he could: a very quiet, "Yeah."

They sat silently for a time, the Nadder between them. Jaspin's father stepped out to get some firewood from the roof-high pile and went back inside. He never looked up.

"Do you think they're nesting?"

"Huh?"

Herdis reached with her nearest hand to caress Bitequick's slim throat. "I heard someone say the dragons might be gone because they're nesting. Like birds do. Because it's spring."

Jaspin hadn't heard that. "Hmm. Makes sense to me." The idea gave him hope and took away some of the awful weight that had been settling on him the last few days. He very much wanted it to be true. "Makes a lot of sense." He leaned forward, looking beneath his Nadder's rounded jowls at her. "So when Bitterbug comes back, she'll have little dragons with her."

Herdis gave a strained smile. "I guess so."

"I'd hate to have to find names for all of them. It'd be worse than kittens."

Her smile faded and she barely nodded. When she leaned her head against Bitequick's shoulder and laid her hand on the dragon's neck he knew he needed to say something.

"She'll be fine. She can take care of herself until she gets back."

"I know," was the quiet reply. "But I hate not knowing where she is or how she's doing. Mom... mom teases me. She says I act like she's my own blood."

Jaspin could sort of understand how some folks, especially the older ones, would not realize how important a dragon could be to its rider. Pets were often seen as something only for children and dragons were mostly seen as unsuitable pets. He'd tried to explain it to his own father once. He wasn't really sure how successful he'd been, but Hogknee had been willing to tolerate his son's preoccupation even if he didn't completely agree with it.

"She doesn't understand," he said. "What it's like to be with them, to... to let them take care of you. To lift you way up and not drop you. To have all those big teeth and never hurt you."

The look in Herdis' wide, surprised eyes answered him, but she spoke anyway. "No. No, she doesn't."

A sudden, crazy idea blossomed in his mind. "Maybe if she had a chance to raise one, a baby dragon. Maybe then she would."

Her face brightened, but only for a moment. She didn't say it but the thought was plain in her expression: 'If she's nesting, if she has babies, if she comes back.' Too many 'ifs' for her comfort.

"Jaspin, would you do something for me?"

"Sure. What is it?"

Herdis closed her eyes a moment. She seemed to shiver a little bit. "Would you look for Bitterbug for me? Since you can still fly. You can look in places I can't even get to any more."

"Oh. Sure." He nodded, happy to be able do something for her. "I can look for Seasquirm while I'm at it. They might even be together."

A dragon roared off in the distance, a Deadly Nadder from the sound of it. He was getting good at identifying their calls. Bitequick roused and looked off to the north, as though the sound had meant something to her.

"Don't... don't bother her or anything, if she's got a nest. I just want to know she's OK."

"Sure," Jaspin agreed. He smiled, hoping to lighten her mood a bit. "Trust me, I'm not stupid enough to get between a dragon and her eggs."

Herdis shook her head. "Oh, Bitterbug is very gentle. But you're probably right. It wouldn't be a good idea."

Bitequick made a sound deep in her chest, one he'd never heard before. It was sort of a stuttering moan that ended with a sharp hiss. She clenched her talons into the thick wooden slats that made up the roof; they could hear them splinter and crack under the pressure.

"Hey, what's the matter?" Jaspin tried to soothe his large friend. Bite turned her head toward him and very gently rubbed the tip of her snout against his chest. He stroked her forehorn in return. "Something bothering you?"

Herdis turned her head to the north. "Do you hear that?"

Jaspin listened, trying to hear anything unusual. All he could really hear was his dragon's breathing, which had gotten deep and rapid all of a sudden.

"Hear what?"

Blacktongue's daughter said nothing for a moment. Then her head came up sharply. "I think it's the pasture bell."

* * *

Grimjaws had made a terribly rough landing that nearly pitched him off the saddle. Worse, they were nowhere near the large cave entrance Kettlecrack had seen. It was hard to be mad at the dragon, though. The winds were whipping back and forth in powerful and unpredictable strokes. Once they were down, he noticed his dragon was keeping his wings curled in toward his body as much as possible. It was obvious he was trying to keep the wind from catching his wings and sending him someplace he didn't want to go. To Kettlecrack's mind that meant they were lucky to have made it down at all. It also meant finding shelter was even more important.

He looked up, trying to find the sun. The black rumbling wall of clouds that had pursued them was blotting it out, but it hadn't completely swallowed them yet. The sky was lighter in one direction than the other, so he took that to be west. He'd completely lost his sense of direction during their careening touchdown.

The sparse, inhospitable land rose noticeably toward what he assumed to be west. With luck they would be able to find that cave he'd seen before the full force of the storm came down on them. Already a light rain was falling. He wouldn't have cared but it was driven by the winds so fiercely that it stung when it hit him face on. He knew a warning when he felt one.

They moved as fast as they could, climbing over broken terrain and jumping small breaks in the ground. The howl of the wind rose and fell continuously; a haunting moan one instant and a whistling shriek the next. There was a smell, too. Something vaguely familiar and unsettling but it came and went so quickly that he couldn't place it.

He spotted the first dragon by nearly falling on it. He'd had to climb over a small wind-scoured ridge and a sudden gust had sent his tri-braided beard flying up into his face. Momentarily distracted, he'd missed his next hand-hold and slid down the other side of the ridge, his heart freezing in panic. His left hand caught some small cleft and he came to a stop, but only after the fingers that had wedged into it bent nearly to the point of breaking. Grunting at the sharp pain, Kettlecrack used his knees and ankles to support his lower body against the slope while reaching into the cleft higher up with his other hand. When he had purchase enough he raised his arm to pull his trapped fingers upwards and out of the cut in the rock.

Kettlecrack curled his hand into a fist, relieved to see none of his fingers were broken though several were bleeding. Looking down at his hand as he shook it, he noticed a strange splash of color in an otherwise gray and forbidding landscape.

The Deadly Nadder crouched within a fairly large natural crevice, more or less sheltered from the winds. It was looking directly up at him where he crouched a short distance above it on the nearby slope of the ridge. It didn't react to his presence other than to watch him closely. This surprised him. If the beast below him was a wild dragon and it didn't care about his being so close then he could only assume it was more worried about the storm that threatened them both. Or that it was one of the ferals that had wandered around Berk and was familiar with Vikings to the point it didn't see him as a threat.

Whatever the case, Kettlecrack still needed to find shelter and he had no desire to disturb the Nadder below him. He looked around, trying to find a way down the slope that would carry him further away from the other dragon. Before he could move, Grimjaws' head and neck came up over the ridge and curled down as he moved forward. The Nightmare stopped when he saw his owner perched above the Nadder. Unfortunately for both of them, he stopped with his body only halfway over the ridge and his wings splayed as he supported himself on the downward slope. An instant after he stopped and gave a puzzled grunt, a severe gust of wind came up from behind him and caught his wings. Instinct caused him to spread his pinions to stabilize himself as though he were flying even though his body was still draped over the ridge. Thus did he get lifted against his will and shoved down the slope onto Kettlecrack.

The two of them wound up at the bottom of the slope amid the rocks and dust, the rain continuing to fall harder. Kettlecrack was unhurt but angry. He climbed to his feet and looked around for his dragon. Grimjaws was nearby, on his back and trying to right himself. The weight of the scorched boar tied to the saddle was making it harder for the dragon to roll over. He snarled and curled up a fist, then froze as he saw the Nadder behind the Nightmare.

He hadn't noticed from above but the feral dragon was crouching next to a strange pile of stones. They looked as though they'd been burned and had partially melted together, streaked with black and gray as they were. There were no distinct lines between each individual rock of the pile. Apparently, each stone had been placed and heated until the whole pile became a single fused lump.

Even stranger, the Nadder was holding one wing over the top of this fused lump. He hadn't noticed that before and it confused him. Why would a dragon cover a lump of half-melted rocks? To protect it from the sun? Or in this case, the rain?

He almost stepped forward, wanting to see what the Nadder was doing. He caught himself in time, remembering that this was not some domesticated beast from Berk. There was no telling what it might do. It didn't seem as if it intended to do anything at the moment, though.

Before he could turn away and resume his hunt for shelter the Nadder lifted the wing from the rock pile and turned its head. The intense and colorful spray of dragon fire lit the inside of the bowl Kettlecrack could now see. Within the bowl, bathed momentarily by the sparking flames, were four round objects.

Kettlecrack was amazed. It was plainly obvious that this was a dragon with a nest of eggs. After warming its molten rock nest it lowered its wing to cover the open top and turned one eye back to watching him. Little tendrils of steam rose from the edge of the nest where the raindrops were able to land on the hot stones. Likewise they spiraled up from the exposed teeth at the front of the Nadder's mouth, which had just bathed in the dragon's intense fire.

He spent a moment wondering why the dragon didn't sit directly on the nest, in the manner of birds. Perhaps it was too large and likely to crush them.

A light touch at his back startled him. He gasped and swung around, ready to defend himself. It was only Grimjaws, who had moved behind him. The Nightmare bumped his shoulder with the tip of his snout again. Perhaps he was eager to move away. A dragon defending its eggs was probably a hard fight for either an unarmed Viking or an undersized dragon like Grim. "Yeah, right," he muttered. He checked himself briefly, making sure he hadn't lost his hunting knife in the fall and walked on. Pausing a moment, he turned back to his dragon and saw that the boar was, surprisingly, still secured to his saddle. Satisfied, he moved away from the nesting Nadder.

And directly toward a Zippleback that had curled its large body around a nest of its own, one wing draped over the top to keep the rain out. It, too, noticed and watched him. Like the Nadder, it offered no violence. Both heads studied him closely, however.

Gronckles, he soon learned, could not shelter their nests with their stubby wings. They built smaller nests with lower walls. To protect them from the cooling effects of the rain they simply stood over them, their wide bodies preventing any water from getting down onto the eggs.

There was a smell, an odor he'd never encountered before. It had been building gradually as he moved among the nests; sharp, hot and metallic. It was the scent of dragon fire and dragon skin. And heated rocks, he supposed. He occasionally caught a hint of something rotten, a vile stench of putrefaction. The wildly twisting winds kept it from reaching him with any real strength.

As he walked, slowly getting soaked, he saw more and more dragons guarding nests. It was eerie. None of the beasts moved as he passed by, except to scrutinize him and Grimjaws. Thinking of his own dragon, Kettlecrack stopped for a moment and regarded the Nightmare. Grim seemed somewhat nervous and was keeping his distance from the nesting creatures as much as possible. When he realized his rider had stopped walking, he also stopped. The dragon's body language and widened eyes told him that his own desire to leave the nesting ground behind was quite strong.

Something was wrong. The dragons, the smell; it meant something. Something important. But he couldn't place it. It teased him, staying just out of reach. He looked around at more than a dozen nests and their attendant dragons, all of which were watching him. The smell hit him again and then skirled away on the fickle wind. The nests steamed, the dragons' mouths steamed, and the rain fell harder.

He was in danger. Kettlecrack wasn't a great warrior and he didn't have a strong mind but he knew he was in a very bad place. The skin on his arms rose in gooseflesh and he rubbed them irritably.

Without knowing exactly what the threat was, all he could do was resume his hunt for shelter. He moved on, over the rough ground and toward the spire in the middle of the rocky island. There was a small rise before him, much like the ridge he'd just climbed. On the other side of it were even more dragons.

And bones.

And a cave.

And death.

The wind that had played with him now struck with a force that would daunt a Valkyrie. It blasted him with icy rain and a heavy penetrating reek that quickly became a physical attack. For an instant Kettlecrack experienced a smell more revolting than anything Kabbi's tanning yard ever produced during high summer. Then the wind shifted direction slightly and it drove him to the ground, retching.

He couldn't focus his mind enough to understand what had happened. His body curled upon itself like dry grass in a fire. His nose and throat burned; his eyes streamed tears. It was more painful than any wound he'd ever gotten, compounded by the added sensitivity of his healing nose. Burning pitch shoved down his gullet into his spasming stomach wouldn't have hurt as much.

Another shift in the wind released him and he drew in a huge, gasping breath. Air tainted with hot rocks and dragon breath never smelled so sweet. He coughed, a heavy racking convulsion that seemed to force the smoldering dregs of death from his lungs. He retched again, bringing up only bile.

He gave a weak and miserable cry as the noxious vapors released him. It was strangely echoed close at hand. He opened his watering eyes to see a large red and yellow form writhing nearby. By the time he had recovered enough to clear his eyes and get to his knees, Grimjaws had similarly recovered. The Nightmare was still scraping the point of his muzzle against the underside of his wing. He spit the acid remains of his last meal from his mouth and muttered hoarsely, "What was that?"

Dragon and rider seemed to recover equally. By the time Kettlecrack had regained his feet the rain was falling hard enough to rinse the taste of vomit from his tongue. He looked around, got his bearings and moved toward the spire once more. Then he stopped again, looking around at the other dragons crouching over their stone bowl nests. They watched him dispassionately, motionless.

The smell, or whatever it was, hadn't bothered them at all. He didn't know what to make of that.

Finally he and Grimjaws found the opening in the spire he'd seen from the air and they took to it gladly. There were even more bones inside than had littered the ground around the nests, bones of every kind of animal imaginable. The stink of rotting flesh was present here, too. Not like what had attacked them, just the normal scent of death and decay.

Soaked as he was, Kettlecrack was grateful for the shelter. The storm grew furious and hateful. The clouds had brought a premature dusk to the island. Thor was thrashing the land with terrible energy. And yet the dragons were unmoved, still and smoking in the cold rain. Grim crouched beside him in the large cave and looked out at the violent weather. The Nightmare gave no indication he wanted to join the others.

The wind shifted a few more times, pushing the rain partway into their cave. With the rain came faint reminders of the smell that had rendered them helpless. Kettlecrack shivered.

Looking back into the depth of the cave, he could only tell that it was very tall and quite deep. The muted daylight barely touched them where they stood, just out of reach of the rain; it could make no more progress than that. He gazed around at the bones scattered across the rough floor of their shelter. The remains of large land animals were equally mixed and scattered. The spine and skull of a bear lay tangled with the ribs of yak, while another jumble of desiccated flesh and broken bones looked suspiciously like part of a whale of some sort.

An oddly shaped lump by one wall caught his eye for a moment. He dismissed it for a large rock, likely fallen from the ceiling. As he turned away something happened in his mind and suddenly he realized what the rock looked like. He stared at it a moment before moving closer, then to one side to let his muted shadow slide off it.

Sockets where eyes used to be. A row of teeth that had once ripped rocks from the ground to grind up and ingest. But the body was truncated - literally.

As he got closer, it was once again the smell that alerted him. He knew the odor of decaying dragon flesh. And the remains of the Gronckle before him were not that old. They were, in fact, fresh enough to have been tossed there within a week or so. But what could have cut the beast in half like that?

The gooseflesh rose on his arms, this time joined by the hair on the back of his neck.

Grimjaws gave him a warning, a frightened squawk that sounded ridiculous coming from a beast big enough to fly off with an adult yak. He glanced at the Monstrous Nightmare, surprised by the shock and fear evident there. It was slowly backing away while looking up at the murky heights of the cave roof.

There came a sound, a low, crushing rumble like mountains grinding one against another. There was another sound, one that seemed to come from behind him. It might have been Grim growling at the menacing darkness but it was so strangely varied and unusual that he was forced to ignore it in favor of what he feared was before him.

Kettlecrack remembered another cave, one on the shores of Berk, where he'd rested during his last hunt before becoming a dragon tamer. Eyes had shown themselves in the dark and moved in ways that seemed unnatural. Now, in this cave, he could only wish for such eyes. The ones he saw now were large. Huge. And so very high up. He'd no idea the cave was so big inside. The sound came again and he recognized it as the growl of a dragon.

A terribly large dragon.

Whatever it was, it seemed content to growl and stare. Kettlecrack decided getting wet was definitely preferable to staying in this thing's cave.

More growling, from in front of him and behind. "Shut up, Grim," he muttered. "Don't need to make it angry. Bloody Timberjack or something."

A second set of eyes opened up, reflecting the wan afternoon light - directly behind the first set.

Ice pooled in the bottom of his stomach. His feet froze to the ground. "No."

As if to prove him wrong, the third set opened, just behind the second set. _Too many eyes!_

Grimjaws was still nattering back and forth with the immense devil before them. Why wouldn't they just shut up? He took a step backward and all the eyes locked on him.

He froze, not believing his luck could be this bad. He wasn't even properly armed. Reaching to the sheath on his hip, he pulled out his pathetically small hunting knife. Holding it before him he took a step back.

It roared.

No, dragons roared. This thing destroyed the very air around it with sound that could break ribs and burst eyes and make Thor himself sit up and take notice. The sound worried at his guts and made the knife in his hand vibrate noticeably.

Now he knew why the island had looked familiar, even though he'd never seen it from the air before.

Kettlecrack knew he wouldn't see the end of this day. He had no delusion that Grimjaws would come to his aid or that having brought his sword would change the outcome of this unwanted meeting. The only consolation, and it was a considerable one, was that he would soon be joining his father in Odin's great halls.

He held the knife before him, a pale trace of red and yellow reflecting on the blade as the Nightmare wisely moved further away.

"Come on, you!"

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2013

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN -** So now you know where I've been going with this.

Mind the cliff, it's a big one. =)


	25. Unraveling

Broken

Chapter 25: Unraveling

The ocean was cool and calm and as dark as the sky above it. Nothing moved across the placid waters except the small rippling waves slowly rolling to the beach. The waning moon was reflected by those waves. The endless rumpled expanse looked as though a whole host of tiny stars lay just under the surface, each appearing and disappearing in a heartbeat. The peaceful rhythm of waves reaching the nearby shore and folding themselves onto the rocks went unnoticed by the single figure that stood there.

That figure was studying the waters, staring deep into their inky, star speckled depths. It cast its gaze back and forth, trying to locate something hidden beneath the miniscule waves. It paced impatiently up and down the rocky beach. A splash caught its attention but only for a moment. A single wave, larger than the others. Nothing more.

Finally there was a louder sound; a body surfaced some distance out, breaking the pattern of waves into jagged and irregular ripples. The figure on the beach watched closely but was frustrated as the body plunged back below the surface.

With an irritated hop and a brief flapping of its wings, the brightscale rose several lengths into the air and loosed a short blast of fire into the water a safe distance from where he believed the First Hunter was swimming.

Two Hearts came up immediately, looking about for whoever had tried to get his attention. Even in the weak light he could easily see the brightscale standing at the water's edge. He couldn't scent the individual; his nose was full of the biting aroma of salt water and the heavier, flatter odor of wet rocks.

He dove once more, using slow, lazy sweeps of his wings to propel himself toward the shore. The muscles and joints of his wings ached a bit. He'd been swimming for some time, trying to get his thoughts to fly in a single direction. The distraction the brightscale offered was welcome; he was no closer to understanding the problems he currently faced than earlier that evening when he'd slipped into the refreshingly cool waters.

When his claws caught the stony beach, he hoisted himself out with a tremendous rush of water draining off his long body and wide wings. He lumbered out onto the shore, feeling his full weight again as the water no longer gave him its lift. Like thick, clinging air, the water was always reluctant to give him back to the solid world. Two Hearts gave a shuddering, twitching flick of all the muscles down both flanks and two hard snaps of his wings to rid himself of most of the water that clung to them. He settled his large wings at a slight angle to encourage the rest of the sea water to drain from them. Thus removed from the ocean and once again a creature of the sky and land, he turned to his nest mate.

Two Hearts was pleased to see the brightscale was Flicktail, one of the Kin Featherstone had released from the preytooth's stone pit to fight against the Great Eel. Flicktail and he had been working recently to give the brightscale more preytooth words so he could catch his bond partner's thoughts. Flicktail had bonded strongly to a female preytooth, one that his own flight mate had once seemed to desire.

Oddly, Featherstone's desire had since gone cold and he could only assume the female's receptive time had passed. Her scent never changed to mark her as carrying young so he thought something else must have interfered with their mating ritual. He suspected it had been all the turmoil that surrounded them before and after the death of the Great Eel.

He greeted Flicktail warmly but that one didn't respond. Puzzled, he took a deeper breath, trying to catch the brightscale's scent. When he did his wings flared and he growled very low in his throat. Fear was coming off his nest mate almost as strongly as the scent of death had come from Fire Nest. Whatever threat there was, to his Kin, his new nest or the preytooths within it, he would meet it with a liver full of fire.

"First Hunter," croaked the brightscale. Now that he knew something was wrong he could also see his nest mate was trembling. The powerful muscles in those sturdy legs and down the length of that dangerous tail were shivering.

"My fire is ready, my liver is hot. Where is the enemy?"

Still the Kin hesitated. What could be wrong that a healthy Kin would be so strongly effected? This was a brightscale who'd fought against the enemy of all Kin, who had allowed a preytooth to climb upon his back and give him directions without any of the preparations the First Hunter had needed. Something was very wrong here.

A tiny thought sparked in his mind. He pushed it away, unwilling to let it take hold.

"Two Hearts." No more than a stuttering grunt could the frightened brightscale put into the name. The heavy legs slowly folded and the narrow chest met the ground. The fear pouring from him was trying to crawl up the ghostwing's legs and burrow inside him. He wouldn't let it. He mustn't.

"Speak, please."

Flicktail's wings were quivering now. His eyes, reflecting the weak light from the sky, were wide and staring.

"Thralls!" The great head, rimmed with many huge spikes, twitched slightly. "Thralls in the nest!"

The fear pierced him through and through, extinguishing his liver's fire and leaving a desolate field of snow in its place.

* * *

He didn't know why he was on the docks. He didn't know why he was surrounded by baskets of eels. His confusion grew when he realized he had eels draped over his shoulders, stuffed into his shirt and dangling from his sleeves. He raised his arms and saw a singularly large eel in his hands. He had no idea when or why he'd picked it up. The black and yellow sea creature was gasping, trying to breathe.

It was not a good idea for so many eels to be on the docks. He needed to get rid of them. Raising it to his mouth, he prepared to consume the biggest one first.

It grunted at him.

He paused, wondering why the sound was so familiar. Before he could continue it grunted again. Then something touched his eel covered shoulder.

The smell of sea water and dragon hide came to him and he opened his eyes. His small window was open, letting in just enough light to see the outline of his friend. A beautiful pair of luminous yellow-green eyes stared back at him.

"Hiccup."

Now the fishy, burnt bone scent of dragon breath washed over him, scrubbing away the remnants of his odd dream. Toothless leaned forward and gently nosed his chin, this time adding a brief lick across his exposed neck. He pulled his arm out from his blanket and laid his hand on the warm, wet snout.

Wet?

Raising his head, Hiccup ran his palm from his dragon's nose to his rounded eye ridge and down the side of his head.

Definitely wet. Toothless had just been swimming. Now he knew why he smelled sea water.

"Hiccup."

"Toothless," he responded blearily. He glanced out the window. No sign of dawn. "Wha's wrong? You alright?"

"Yes."

Hiccup's arm thumped to the bed. He lowered his head, closed his eyes and felt his grip on the world slipping. The darkness seemed to open below him and welcome him back.

"Hiccup."

"Uhh."

"Yes."

"Mmm."

His upper arm was gripped and he was dragged upright. His eyes shot open. "Wharyoodoon?"

"Yes. Yes."

Hiccup sometimes had trouble waking in the morning. He occasionally slept late if others would allow it. And it was even harder after having already been woken for some emergency earlier in the night.

His heart gave a sudden lurch and he gasped. The memory came back to him. Stoick had roused him out of bed with far less consideration after an incident in the northeast field had caused Yrsa to ring the alarm bell. The whole of that confusing and disturbing occurrence had left him feeling unsettled and wishing he had known how to answer his father's questions. More, he'd wanted to know where the Night Fury had gone for the night.

He struggled to pull the wandering pieces of his mind together. Toothless' presence meant he could get the answers Stoick had wanted. But immediately after that thought was another realization. Something about this current situation was very much off.

Hiccup looked at Toothless. The dragon was in his room. This was not a first, but it did mean that the Fury had let himself into the Haddock house, climbed the stairs to the loft where he slept and nudged him awake. His father was not standing beside the dragon demanding attention, so Toothless must have come to him very quietly.

He looked at his upper arm. His friend was still sitting beside his bed, one foreleg reaching out and the clawed paw carefully but firmly gripping him and holding him up.

"Toothless. What's wrong? What's going on?"

The paw let go and the foreleg shifted down to the floor but the dragon's stare was as intense as ever.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes. Yes." Toothless shifted his lean hips to one side and carefully brought the end of his tail around until it lay on the bed. The foreleg came up again and the paw patted the incomplete appendage. "Yes."

"Umm..." Hiccup was missing something. Why did he keep saying- "Oh." He was getting 'yes' and 'fly' mixed up again. Toothless wanted Hiccup to put the flying rig on him.

Jarred awake for the second time in one night, it took a little longer for him to start thinking clearly. But now that he was as alert as he could possibly be, he became aware of what was going on. Unfortunately this new situation made him as uncomfortable as the previous one had.

The evening's shepherds had witnessed what sounded very much like a raid from before the battle. It had been a limited raid, yes, and one without casualties but a raid all the same. Now his dragon had returned after being gone all evening and wanted to fly. Hiccup couldn't believe the two events were unrelated.

"Toothless, my dad wants to talk to you. Something happened tonight that-"

"No." This time there was no confusion. The faintly luminous eyes moved side to side as the ink colored dragon shook his head. Another unhappy realization suddenly came to him. Toothless' growly, grunting voice was much subdued. The Fury was essentially whispering. That meant he didn't want to wake Stoick, didn't want to talk to Stoick and didn't want to answer questions.

Hiccup had questions of his own, and they were largely the same questions his father would ask if he were awake.

"Did you know that dragons came and took some sheep tonight?"

The eyes blinked and then slowly closed. He could see the wide head tilt down, as though ashamed. "Yes."

He set aside any worries that admission implied and asked what seemed to him to be the more important question. "Is that why you want to fly now?"

The head came up, the eyes opened. "Yes. Fly." He could hear the difference now.

After completing and testing the improved flying rig for Toothless, Hiccup had sworn to himself that his dragon had to have access to flight any time he wanted it. Otherwise the changes he'd made would be meaningless. Independence was worthless if Hiccup refused to hook up the rig that would allow the Fury to fly on his own. To the young Viking this meant that at any time and under any conditions that Toothless wanted to fly, he was bound to grant the dragon's request.

Even in the dead of night under suspicious circumstances.

Surely Toothless would not place the village in jeopardy or thwart Stoick's efforts to protect it. If he felt it was more important to go somewhere than to explain himself to the chief, why should his rider question him?

Hiccup decided. Not that he could have really denied Toothless in a time of need, but reassuring himself at least allowed him to feel less traitorous for not informing his father of his dragon's return.

It took a bit of time. After climbing out of bed and getting dressed, he put his oak and iron leg on, moving carefully to keep it from thumping the floor too hard. Stoick was a heavy sleeper so the occasional rough bump or knock didn't affect him. They made their way downstairs, Toothless leading the way.

Hiccup was both worried and puzzled about how such a large being could move quietly within a house, let alone down the steep, narrow stairs that connected the loft to the main room. With the limited light from a shrunken moon barely making the walls and floors visible, he was just able to see how the Fury managed. First he tightly compressed his wings, as he had within Freygerd's small cottage. Then he worked his front legs down the first few steps. His hind legs, which were not really made for traversing stairs, were accommodated by using his heavy tail as a prop. The tail would press down against the stairs, supporting his back end. Then the rear legs would lift and move to the next step down. It was a strange process to watch. It was also nearly silent.

Stoick was breathing the slow and steady way he did when fast asleep. Hiccup gently picked up all the pieces of the flying rig, careful to keep the large metal portions from clanging together. Toothless used his claws to pull open the door and they were soon outside. They moved a distance from the house and set to work.

The sky was clear and the stars helped make up the missing light from the moon, which looked like it had a large bite taken out of it. Long practice allowed Hiccup's nimble fingers to make quick work of the task, regardless of the light.

When all was ready, Hiccup made to mount his dragon. Toothless stepped away, grunting, "No." The young man stood, confused and at a loss.

"What?" A feeling of dread slowly came over him, unwanted and unwelcome. "Toothless, what's wrong?"

The dragon dropped his head between his forelegs to see where the extra controllers dangled near his rear legs. He carefully worked his hind paws until the wooden pegs were securely clasped. When he was satisfied he turned to face his rider. "Hiccup."

The young Haddock stepped up to the Night Fury's head, placed his hands under the wide jaw and stared into those bright eyes. Even a weak moon's light made them shine.

"Toothless, please. Let me come. I can help you with... whatever's going on." It felt like a bad dream. Why would the Fury want to leave him behind?

The dragon only stared a moment. Then he slowly shook his head. He closed his eyes once more and stretched his neck, pushing the tip of his nose into the center of Hiccup's thin chest. A deep, purring growl sent little vibrations into his stomach.

Hiccup leaned forward and pressed his cheek to the top of Toothless' head. Worry struggled with trust. He believed his best friend knew what he was doing. But what if he needed help and couldn't get back? How would he even know if something bad happened while he was gone? His fears and faith pulled at him, back and forth as quickly as his own rapid heartbeat.

When he pulled back and looked once more into the Fury's eyes he knew trust had won, but only by the slimmest of margins. He caught himself wishing he hadn't changed the flying rig. But he immediately knew that wasn't true. It was only his concern for his friend, his desire to stay with him, to help him. "Please, be careful." Toothless said something short but he couldn't make it out, some word he'd not quite learned or one he never had. "And come back as soon as you can."

The dragon crouched and leapt, powerful muscles propelling him well over Hiccup's head before the first sweep of the huge wings buffeted him. It took only a few seconds for the black night air to swallow him, leaving only the receding sound of wings.

Hiccup stared at the empty sky for several minutes. Something his father had said not long ago came back to him. 'That's how a parent feels when their child becomes an adult and leaves for their own life.' But Toothless was no child. He was a fully grown dragon capable of taking care of himself.

He was also the most important thing in the world to a skinny young Viking who was not going to get any more sleep that night.

* * *

It was well past dawn when he opened his eyes. His usual habit was to rise as or before the sun made its appearance. Emergencies tended to play havoc with habits, though. Last night's crisis had certainly cost him a lot of sleep, so he wasn't bothered much to have slept late. What bothered him was waking to an empty house.

Hiccup should have been there.

Stoick made himself a simple breakfast of bread, berries and water. The bread was excellent, up to the Harald's usual standards. The berries weren't quite ripe, though. Some ale would have helped with that. Everything tasted better with some good ale, but currently he had none in the house. He would have to visit the Ingermans to see about getting another keg. He would do that after he found his son. If he found his son.

Hiccup had not responded well to the news they'd gotten during the night. The boy sometimes had trouble waking fully when his sleep was interrupted. He'd even been known to occasionally sleep through a raid in years past. But it hadn't just been a weary mind and body that had been the problem. He'd had trouble believing there had even been a raid. While Signy and her father reported the incident to Stoick, Hiccup had stood nearby shaking his head in disbelief.

His son knew the gravity of this new situation, he was sure. He'd made it clear to him last night. There was no room for sentimentality or favoritism. If the Night Fury and the other dragons were truly as Hiccup claimed then they needed to answer for their behavior. Theft of food could not be tolerated. Just because no one died as a result didn't make the loss any more bearable. If he'd truly taken the message to heart, his son was out right now trying to locate the beasts responsible. The chief would rather have found him at the table, the Night Fury at his side and ready to answer the questions he wanted answered.

Once he finished his meal, Stoick headed out the door to look for Hiccup. That's when he noticed the empty spot by the door, opposite the pile of firewood.

Toothless' flying rig was gone.

He stared at the place where Hiccup usually set the complicated leather and iron contraption, trying not to let his feelings get the better of him. As both his father and his chief, Stoick had lots of practice controlling the frustration and disappointment the boy often caused. Keeping a level head and making wise decisions rather than angry ones was in everyone's interest. Stoick was good at it, having had lots of practice.

This, however, smacked of something he didn't want to consider: a willingness on Hiccup's part to protect a creature based on what it was rather than what it had done. The boy had deliberately taken the dragon flying - or allowed it to fly on its own - when he knew full well it needed to account for what had happened. The notion that his own child would intentionally hinder his efforts to protect the village and their livestock set a fire in his belly. How could Hiccup do such a thing?

Realizing the anger was taking control, Stoick set that thought aside. He leaned one arm against the door frame and placed his other hand on his brow. He needed to think a moment. There was something wrong with what was going on in his mind. He took a few deep breaths and tried to let his thoughts settle.

Hiccup was devoted to the Fury. Likewise the dragon was devoted to his son. They protected one another. Either would defend the other against Stoick if it felt necessary. They'd both proven that, the Fury having done so most recently. But what of other dragons? How far did Hiccup's devotion extend? Would his son allow some other beast's needs to outweigh the needs of the village?

No. Stoick shook his head and thrust that thought away as unworthy. He knew his son better than that. The question was not 'how could he do such a thing?' It was 'could he do such a thing?' And the answer was 'no.'

So why had they left?

Stoick could think of several reasons, none of which had anything to do with protecting thieving dragons.

The great hall was not far behind his house, so he turned and headed that way. There were a few folks coming and going from that immense chamber carved directly into the mountain. Those heading in were bringing food for storage or preparation for the evening's meal and those leaving had most likely already done so. Freya's handling of communal meals was nothing short of exceptional but the work couldn't be done without plenty of help.

The doors stood wide and the fire in the central pit had already burned low. Warmer weather and earlier light meant less need of a large fire. It also meant less smoke and an easier chance to catch a whiff of what had been made for the morning meal. Stoick could smell a hint of crisply fried ham and eggs as well as the usual scent of the staple porridge that many folks had to break their fast. It made his bread and berries seem a poorer choice.

The only people in the hall, however, were those helping clean up after the last meal and prepare for the next. Hiccup wasn't here, nor were his friends. The hall was a common place for them to seek each other's support or comfort after suffering a setback.

And the raid had certainly been a setback, at least to Stoick's way of thinking. It had gone directly against what his son and that clever black dragon had seemed to claim recently. The afternoon the three of them had spent around the Haddock hearth, Stoick and Hiccup speaking and the Fury doodling in the ashes, was still fresh in his mind. There had been one key question the chief had wanted answered: would the dragons promise to never again take aggressive actions against Berk. Hiccup's dragon had seemed to make the claim that dragons wanted peace with Vikings. According to his son, the crude figures scratched in the gray dust had meant 'Viking no hurt dragon/dragon no hurt Viking.'

When the chief asked how they could trust them, the dragon repeated the same explanation his son had put forth shortly after the battle. Supposedly dragons, which were actually large scaly people, had acted against their will. The Red Death had been responsible for somehow forcing them to keep it fed. Stoick hadn't put any real thought into the how and why of dragon raids, even after the discovery and death of that mind-boggling monster. But once it was dead, dragons had undeniably started behaving differently. The raids had stopped, the fighting had ended. There was no good reason to question what had happened before or why.

Until now. The Red Death was certainly still dead and now dragons were starting to go back to their old ways.

Of course there was still the possibility that the season was actually responsible. It was spring; animals were thoroughly occupied with having and raising young. That might be the reason for snatching easy food from Berk. And so far, no dragons had actually attacked a villager. It could be that in another month or two, the problem would simply go away.

But maybe it wouldn't.

He left the hall and made his way to Freygerd's cottage. Another possibility was that Hiccup wanted council from the elder. The boy hadn't taken advantage of her wisdom until recently. Word had come to him that he had visited her a few weeks ago. Perhaps he had sought her out again. Stoick had spoken to her several times of late, hoping for some insight into how to handle the new problems that came from Vikings and dragons living together. Surely she would have some words to offer, some guidance to give.

Her door was standing open, as it often was. When he called her name, however, she failed to appear. He stepped up to the door and peered inside. With a mild grunt of irritation, he lowered himself to one knee to look below the level of hanging pots and baskets. Still he saw nothing.

He walked around her small house and looked out at the sprawling fields behind the hill. They were dotted with lone trees, stray boulders and sprays of flowering plants. It took a little time to spot her, but eventually he found her diminutive form out among the gentle waves of a green ocean. Her back was to him and she disappeared a moment as she stooped to gather something she'd found. She moved a few steps and then stooped again.

So Hiccup had not come here to ask for her wisdom and she was hunting the herbs and seeds that she used and stored. Had he not felt he needed council on this matter? Did he believe he knew enough about the situation that he could disappear to do... whatever it was he was doing?

He frowned slightly. Stoick still wasn't used to thinking of dragons as having real minds. Hiccup had access to any information he needed about dragons. The Night Fury had proved to him he could communicate in a limited fashion with his drawing spike. What need would the boy have of Freygerd's knowledge?

So had the dragon influenced Hiccup's behavior this morning? Had they left without speaking to their chief at the Fury's request? And if so, why? To find answers? Or something else?

A sudden, ugly thought came to him, one that made the hair on his massive arms stand on end.

If the Fury was truly intelligent, could it deceive Vikings if it so chose?

Two images revisited him, one right after the other. The first was a relatively small black dragon unleashing a bolt of blue fire so powerful it slammed the Red Death to the ground. The second was that powerful black dragon nuzzling his sleeping son with great tenderness. The spectrum of the Fury's hatred and allegiance was distilled within those two images. And Hiccup was as much the focus of that allegiance as the Red Death was the focus of hatred. Where would deception fit within such an allegiance?

Did the dragon's allegiance to Hiccup extend to other Vikings? Did the Fury even care what other dragons did, so long as its own pet Viking was kept safe?

Stoick's bread and berries turned slowly to acid as he left Freygerd's cottage.

His thoughts were turning in small, dark circles as he wandered through the village. He found himself standing before the smithy. He had gone to the next best place to find Hiccup even as his mind gnawed at the doubts that lay strewn before him. Gobber's forge was another typical place to find his son hiding, burying himself in work or design.

The master smith was absent, the forge was cold and even the Terrible Terrors were missing from his rooftop. There was no one around except those who were going about their daily routines nearby. Stoick waved absently to those who greeted him; he was too distracted to do more. He went to the trouble to squeeze into the small storage room in back that his son had claimed as a work room, but for naught.

Stoick looked around at the clutter of tools and material, not really seeing his surroundings but the large sea colored eyes of a mysterious flying reptile.

What was the Night Fury, truly?

It was powerful, rare. It was intelligent, capable of emotion. It was as complex in its own way as any ordinary Viking. So what was it? Was it a person, a Viking with a different form? Was it a clever animal, capable of mimicking what it saw? What were its intentions, its desires?

Was it Stoick's friend or enemy? Was there any way to know before some final, fatal test came to pass?

The hair on his arms was trying to stand up again.

He turned abruptly, heading to the only other place the two might be. Assuming they were still on the island.

He didn't need to actually make the long walk down the wooden ramps to the docks. From the top of the cliffs he could see every empty spot down on the water where a ship could be tied. Currently there were two ships still tethered; both were undergoing minor repairs. The rest were out to drop nets or visit other nearby islands for hunting. There was no way for either his son or the dragon to hide down there.

Hiccup regularly fed the Fury from the daily hauls of fish and game, often simply waiting on the docks to see who would offer a portion of their take. The pair never left the docks empty handed. While many folks were still not comfortable or happy about the presence of dragons on the island, there were also many who saw Hiccup as a hero and his dragon as a worthy steed. Hiccup would sometimes do some fishing from the docks to help, but his time was limited of late. The offerings of grateful villagers on the docks made keeping the black dragon fed a manageable task.

Another new thought came to Stoick as he looked down upon the empty docks. For all the power and ability the Night Fury possessed, it could not feed itself. Its very life came from Hiccup. As the boy told the story, that was what allowed them to cross the hostile territory Viking and dragons claimed and meet on neutral ground. Hiccup fed the downed dragon, earned its trust and thus tamed it.

No. Not tamed. Befriended. Each had set aside good reason to distrust and allowed the other to get close. As events unfolded, Hiccup gained knowledge of dragons never before known and the dragon gained survival, a new chance at flight and a first chance to kill the tormentor of all dragons. So Hiccup said.

So now the Fury had a new life, closely tied to Hiccup. It protected the boy, watched over him and seemed content with their interdependence.

That wasn't true, either. Not any more. The hair on his arms tried once more to stand on end, and this time it rose up straight as a new picture came to him.

The Night Fury no longer needed Hiccup to feed him. His son had used his strange gift for design to create a way for the dragon to fly without a rider. It was no longer tied to him. It no longer needed him to go anywhere or do anything it chose. Had it been waiting for that all along?

Was that why dragons were now feeling bold enough to start raiding once more? Because they no longer needed one particular Viking's help to keep their... leader alive?

Was that what the Fury was? Was it the leader of the dragons? Could it be possible it had gotten what it needed from Hiccup and had left him behind?

Or taken him?

The small, dark circles his thoughts had traveled became smaller and darker.

Stoick looked up, wondering where that one dragon had gone. His eyes searched a mostly cloudless, empty sky. The recent storm had swept the air of Midgard clean. In the distance he spotted two dragons, flying well apart. One seemed to be reddish yellow, the other greenish gold. Where was it?

When his gaze returned to the ground he happened to notice a small figure on the nearby cliffs. It was standing, looking up and turning slow circles. His first thought was to berate himself. Why hadn't he thought of that?

Between that thought and his first step toward his son, he realized he was immensely grateful the Fury hadn't taken his boy with him when he left. The last and most worrisome thought before he reached Hiccup was that the conversation they were about to have was going to be a very difficult one.

Stoick didn't want to accuse. He didn't know what had happened between the dragon and his son so he had no reason to assume the worst. He tried to think of a way to calmly approach the topic that was obviously foremost in both their minds. Yet when he came close enough for Hiccup to notice him, all he could see was the way his son froze for several heartbeats. Then he saw the minute slumping of his narrow shoulders and guilty breaking of eye contact. It was the 'I am caught, I am defeated' look from his childhood. Stoick hated it and as a result the first words out of his mouth had the same tone they'd had so long ago, before Hiccup had saved both Berk and his own father from destruction.

"Well, where's your dragon?"

Hiccup swallowed. It was all so familiar; the pause before answering, the tiny shrug, the small voice confessing to well-intended but ill-fated adventures. He felt his fists ball themselves up and plant themselves on his hips, his old habit to keep from taking a frustrated swat at a thinly boned boy who couldn't withstand a casual blow like an adult.

"I don't know."

It wasn't a confession or an apology. It was a simple, quiet statement filled with sorrow and it threw a bucket of snow on the rekindling fire in Stoick's heart. He leaned back slightly, noticing the look on his son's face for the first time. The lean frame might have been speaking of guilt, but the eyes and the mouth spoke only of a deep pain. He sighed, knowing the conversation was going to be even harder than he'd expected.

He laid a careful hand on Hiccup's shoulder and asked, "What happened?"

The boy kept his composure. Oddly, when he turned toward him and lifted his head to speak, the bright morning sunshine highlighted the newest sprouts of facial hair on his rounded chin. Signs of manhood, Stoick thought.

"I'm sorry, dad. He..." Each word had risen in pitch. He clenched his jaw a moment, fought with his emotions. This time he kept his voice level. "He wanted to leave. He didn't say where he was going, or what he was doing. I asked-" His jaw clenched again, and this time so did the small fists. "I asked if he was leaving because of what happened."

Stoick felt a new flush of heat. At least one answer might be had.

"He said yes."

That wasn't enough. "Nothing else?"

Hiccup hesitated. "Only that he didn't... didn't want to..."

Stoick felt certain he knew what the dragon didn't want to do.

"He wouldn't let me go with him!"

Stoick's anger was again tempered by the poorly disguised anguish. But he also saw another answer in that statement. The Fury had left Hiccup behind.

He didn't want to draw hasty conclusions. But it felt to him that there was something out of balance between Hiccup and his dragon. If his idea was right, he needed to prepare his son for some truly bitter disappointment in the near future.

"Son." He squeezed the shoulder under his large hand. "Why do you think he left now? What do you think he's doing?"

Hiccup immediately shook his head, but he also said, "Maybe he's going to ask the other dragons to stop taking food. Maybe, maybe he's even going to get the sheep back. He's... he could do that." And there, plain and heartbreaking to see, was the doubt in his son's eyes. That told him more than anything else.

"Hiccup." He took back his hand. His son was breaching adulthood. He needed to treat him like a man. Still, he spoke gently. "You said that dragons are like us. You said they are like people."

The boy - young man - frowned. "They _are_ people."

"Can they lie?"

It all played out on his face. He'd never considered it. The very idea baffled him. Then it made him angry. A touch of the true Viking spirit, and only in regards to that powerful and mysterious dragon.

"Why would you say that?"

"Why are the dragons gone? Are they breeding, or is it something else?"

He lost him again. This was important, though. He waited for his son to work it out. It didn't help.

"I- I don't know."

"Why are they stealing food and raiding the sheep pens? Are they feeding young, or is it something else?"

A weak shake of the head. "I don't know."

"Why did the only Night Fury we know of decide to leave in the middle of the night? Why did he sneak away?"

That struck a nerve. "I told you I don't know!"

"What _do_ you know, Hiccup? What _can_ you know? Can you _really_ talk to him, son?"

Real anger blossomed. "You did! We both did!"

"Talk, Hiccup, not draw funny pictures. Can he speak Norse like a Norseman?"

Stoick saw sudden disdain in Hiccup's eyes at the suggestion.

"Of course not! His mouth isn't made for it! Just like my throat can't say his words!"

To drive his point home, he leaned down to stare directly into Hiccup's eyes. "If you can't really speak to him then what do you really know about him? Do you know who he is?"

As smart as he was, Hiccup still couldn't follow him. Or wouldn't, for the sake of his supposed friendship. "Who he is?"

"Is he the leader of the dragons?"

Stoick knew his son well enough to see his confusion was real. This also hadn't occurred to him. "Leader?"

"People have leaders. If dragons are like people then they must have a leader. Is he their leader?"

"I... I don't..."

Another idea suddenly came to him, one that gave even him chills. His voice grew quiet as it spilled from his mind. "Was the Red Death their leader?" If it had been, what did that say about the Fury's behavior? "Did he get you to help him kill their leader so he could take its place?"

Hiccup obviously rejected that idea out of hand. "WHAT? How could you even think that?"

"Because it's possible and he's not here to say different, is he? What would he say if he was here? Would he say yes? Or no?" He placed a single finger in the middle of his son's chest and pushed slightly. "And could you tell if he was lying?"

The young man looked truly upset. It seemed to him, however, that his distress came not just from the ideas his father was suggesting but also from the possibility that he was right.

"Why are you doing this?"

That was easy to answer. "Because I'm the chief and it's my responsibility to keep Berk safe. I used to have to protect my village from large, powerful dumb animals. Now I may have to protect it from large, powerful _smart_ animals."

Hiccup said nothing more. He didn't seem able.

"Maybe you're right, Hiccup. Maybe dragons really are as smart as Vikings. But Vikings know how to lie. Vikings know how to deceive. So maybe dragons do, too."

Anger, rage even. Or desperation. His voice went so high it was impossible to tell. "Toothless would never lie to me!"

Moments slid by, measured in hammering heartbeats. He could see the pulsing of the large veins in his son's neck. He waited until Hiccup seemed to be listening again. He stared hard at him and said in a quiet, deliberate tone, "How do you know that?"

Hiccup's world was falling apart, he could see it. It brought him no pleasure to do it. Stoick's ideas had enough merit to open the boy's eyes to the possibilities. Hiccup's first step into manhood, into leadership, would have to be an unpleasant one. Stoick's had been.

* * *

It had been a rough morning.

Astrid's house was empty. Her mother was with her sister Freya in the great hall preparing meals while her father was spending the day helping the Haralds with the grinding. She sat by herself on the steps of her house and watched the rising sun turn a sullen sky into ribbons of pink fire and lumpy golden fleece.

She felt strangely abandoned. She understood her parents were helping with the everyday work that kept the village alive, but she would have liked to have spoken to them, asked for their advice. Not that they really could have helped with the problem she had, since it was her dragon's absence that was bothering her most.

Astrid considered herself a stable, strong minded and strong willed person. The majority of her life until last autumn had been spent working her way toward a singularly important goal: to protect her family and village by being a ruthlessly effective destroyer of dragons. Her efforts to achieve that goal had carried her through many hardships and disappointments. When Hiccup turned everything, including her goals, upside down she took pride in being able to adjust. And she hadn't just managed to get by with the new way of things. She thrived by them.

When she learned there would probably be other, unforeseen consequences of the new ways, she started to have doubts. Uncertainty had crept into her mind, taking the joy out of many things. The troubling notion of being placed within an arranged marriage threatened to undo everything she'd accomplished for herself. Worse, it was possible those aspects of her life Hiccup had changed for the better might well be completely ruined for her.

On top of all this, she was now trying to deal with yet another major change in her world. Folkvardr, the Deadly Nadder who'd become such an important part of her new life, had been revealed to be far more than she would have ever believed. All dragons, Hiccup had said and Toothless had proved, were as smart and complex as Vikings. They were people, with thoughts and feelings and language.

This had proved to be a much harder change to adjust to than anything previously.

Dragons could be tamed and trusted? The proof was at hand, in Hiccup and his dragon. She might be required to marry a stranger, leave her home and family, and possibly even leave behind her newly acquired reptilian friend? Unfortunate and maybe even unfair, but she believed she could find a way to still serve her village, be its protector and perhaps enjoy her life. Eventually.

But tell her the beasts that had tormented her tribe, changed from foes to friends and were now doing so much to feed and protect her village were, in fact, people? The idea warred with itself in her mind every single day. To look at them was to see animals, nothing more than smart beasts that had been trained to view cooperation with Vikings as beneficial.

The few afternoons she'd spent with Folk, Toothless and Hiccup, trying to speak to him and getting actual answers had quickly become something she both desired and dreaded. She found there were questions she didn't want to ask, answers she didn't want to hear. She started to feel unworthy of her dragon's friendship, and that warred with itself in her mind also. How long had dragons raided and killed the villagers of Berk? How many dragons had been injured or slain by those same villagers? Was it right to ignore all that had happened on both sides of that conflict?

There was also the personal history the two of them had. Astrid had been trying to figure out how to approach that subject, to ask the questions, to gauge how her dragon felt about what had happened in the arena during their fights. The affection the Nadder consistently showed her made his feelings about her plain. That didn't mean there weren't apologies owed on each side. Often she struggled with the idea of bringing that up and dealing with it or letting it lie between them, pretending it hadn't happened or that it didn't matter. Not dealing with it felt cowardly to her and she hated that. But she'd never had to converse with a person she'd once considered an animal that needed killing. Those thoughts tied her in knots that made her stomach ache.

As much as she struggled to understand these ideas, it upset her even more when Folkvardr had turned up missing after Yrsa had waked the village to news of a dragon raid. Astrid had wanted to be close to her dragon and be assured that he had not participated in this new and puzzling attack on the flocks. She had made her way behind the house to find his lean-to empty. His absence didn't mean he'd been involved in the raid but it did leave the question unanswered.

She had no idea where Folkvardr went when he left her alone. There were times she'd seen him fishing or bathing off Ingifast's beach. Many times she had seen him flying with other dragons, chasing each other through the skies like oversized songbirds, dizzy with the scent of spring in their noses. Where he went when he disappeared she could only guess. To hunt, almost certainly. To find a mate, perhaps. But what else? What other things occupied him when he was gone?

By the time the brilliant fires among the clouds had been extinguished and the sun was fully above the eastern horizon, Astrid knew she needed to either get on with her daily chores or give in to her anxiety and look for her dragon. Searching for an independent creature that could fly would almost certainly be a hopeless task but she was worried enough that she was nearly ready to try anyway.

Just as she stood, ready to make her decision and either head into the house or go to Ingifast's beach, there was a familiar warbling squawk from behind and above her. Her heart leapt with joyous relief as the very dragon she'd wanted to find came winging in over her head. Folkvardr squawked again, turned awkwardly and tried to land without properly slowing down. With a desperate flaring of his wings, the Nadder forced himself down to the ground. His legs took the brunt of his hard landing, his large claws tearing up the grassy ground as his momentum kept him moving. He staggered gracelessly, stumbled and wound up hopping a few times as he tried to get his body, legs and wings to all change direction at once.

Astrid watched, both amused and happy and still worried as Folkvardr got himself under control and moved quickly to her side. His squawks turned to soft trilling as he approached. She raised her arms to him and stepped forward. They came together, his chest and head bobbing low to meet her height and her cheek pressed to the tip of his sloping snout. She stroked his lower jaw and told him how happy she was to see him safe and sound.

When she stepped back a bit to look him over his nose followed her, pressing into her shoulder. Still he crooned to her, a quiet sound that seemed to reflect similar feelings in him. She stepped back again and still he followed her. He seemed quite frantic to have some physical reassurance from his rider and Astrid was quite willing to give it. They wound up pressed together, snout to shoulder, for some minutes. She continued to stroke his lower jaw and spoke soothingly to him.

Finally he calmed enough that she could lean back and look him in the nearest eye. "Are you ok?"

He gurgled and chittered a bit but gave no other indication he understood the question.

"Is something wrong?"

Again he gave her no clear response and she started to feel that frustration she'd experienced when she'd first tried to speak to him. Fortunately she knew how to improve her chances of getting an answer: she reduced her question to a single word.

"Bad?"

Folkvardr froze, blinked at her. His mouth dropped open slightly, making it look as though he wanted to speak to her. Or perhaps he was trying to remember a different way to respond.

A moment later he seemed to prove it was the latter. His toothy jaw snapped shut and he made a deliberate if jerky up and down motion with his head. So there _was_ something wrong. Astrid could only assume it had something to do with the events of the previous evening. Without help from their translator partners, she doubted she could work out the source of Folkvardr's distress. She knew what she needed to ask next.

"Hiccup?"

The Nadder reacted immediately this time, nodding emphatically. He also stepped back from her, turned his side toward her and crouched with the nearest wing held slightly back to aid in her mounting. He wasn't saddled and that concerned her a bit. But after she had nimbly worked her way onto his back and leaned forward to brace herself he took off at a loping run, his wings partially extended for better balance.

With Hiccup and Toothless' help she would be able to get some kind of grip on her concerns for Folkvardr. It occurred to her that her dragon may actually have something to say about the raid that had gotten everything stirred up. And as she bounced with the unaccustomed motion of her Nadder's heavy stride she tried to think how to ask Toothless for help with her dragon. She had an epiphany instead.

For an instant, everything went still. She didn't feel the warm body shifting beneath her, didn't smell the usual scent of spring flowers, greening grass and salt air. All that occupied her mind at that moment was a singular black dragon that represented something she had never considered before. Of course she'd never had a _reason_ to consider it before.

'Night Fury' had once meant 'unseen terror.' Her introduction to him had placed that single dragon into a new category: 'pet dragon.' But over the last week or so she had, without realizing it, come to think of him as a strange mixture of Hiccup, Freygerd and Stoick. He was unique, powerful, yet now almost inseparable in thought from his rider. When she imagined Hiccup, Toothless was always there in her thoughts with him.

He also seemed wise, somewhat like Freygerd. He appeared to understand as no one else could how the whole 'Vikings and dragons' way of life would succeed. It had always been Hiccup who had acted as though he were finding the answers to the questions Berk had about dragons. But Toothless had been the source of much of the knowledge Hiccup had gained.

And he had what Stoick had; a commanding presence among his own. She'd seen it several times without understanding it. Even between Folkvardr and him, their behavior had pointed to a measure of deference on the Nadder's part.

Now it all made sense. Toothless was, among dragons, what Hiccup would be in time; a leader of his... people.

Had the gods sent him?

Had they placed their hands on Hiccup's long enough to ensure that one strange, Hiccup-built weapon would work and bring Toothless into Berk's fold?

Before that line of thought could go any further, Folkvardr came to a gentle stop in front of the Haddock house. There was no sign of him outside and the door was closed. She slid from her dragon's back and knocked on the door. When she didn't get an answer she pushed it open enough to poke her head in. "Hiccup? Chief?" No answer.

She needed to fly. Her chance of finding them would improve significantly if she were airborne. "Come on Folk, let's get you saddled. Home."

So she lost a bit of time letting her dragon carry her back to her house and putting the saddle on him. Once they were aloft she scanned the skies for the Fury, hoping to spot him quickly. Her luck wasn't that good.

When Astrid finally did find him she saw he wasn't alone. He was on the cliff overlooking the harbor and Stoick was with him. She hesitated, not wanting to intrude on a father-son talk. Moments later, however, the chief walked away. She leaned forward to signal a descent and Folkvardr took them down.

There was a moment, a disturbing instant when he realized they were approaching and about to land. She met his eyes and was shocked to see him in a state she hadn't seen since he'd nearly burned Gobber's smithy down years and years ago. The horrified, haunted look of anguish on his face in that one instant nearly made her pull up on her saddle and get Folk to fly them back home. Whatever had just happened between him and his father was fresh and raw and would likely make it impossible for the boy to have a meaningful conversation with her about her problems.

In the next instant, however, she realized that whatever had passed between Stoick and Hiccup had likely been related to, if not directly about, the questions she had. There wouldn't be a better or more appropriate time to talk to him and -

Where was Toothless?

They landed; she dismounted and took a few steps closer to him. The morning breeze was bringing the usual sounds and smells while the three of them stood there. She looked around, cast her eyes upward toward the empty sky, and then focused on Hiccup again. The picture came clear to her in a flash. He was here, looking for his missing dragon, Stoick had spoken to him and now he was still standing here, alone and looking at the grass instead of the sky.

Toothless was gone and Hiccup was distraught. She asked the only question that would make sense.

"What's happened?"

His eyes closed and his small hands formed fists so tightly his knuckles paled in the morning sun. He offered no other response. She would have to dig deeper.

"Where's Toothless?"

His jaw clenched silently but his head came up. He looked at her as if she were deliberately tormenting him and couldn't understand why she would be so callous and unfeeling. Once more and against her wishes she felt the age-old frustration and anger at the boy who had so often sown seeds of chaos without even realizing it. She wanted to smash through all the confusion and silence and get to the root of it all. She tried with a single word, impatiently spoken.

"Well?"

The anguish that bloomed on his face gave her pause. The pain in his voice sparked genuine concern amidst the anxiety.

"I don't know, ok? I don't know where he went! Right now all I know is he wouldn't take me. I don't know why or where he went or anything. He just left me there!"

Astrid had genuine sympathy for him. Those had been the same kind of words that echoed in her heart as she tried to decide about looking for Folkvardr. She knew that feeling all too well to judge him harshly for it. Glancing over her shoulder at her Nadder, she remembered the relief that had come drifting over her house and plummeting into her heart. She had that comfort to offer, the simple reminder of what had apparently slipped away in his moment of confusion and fear.

"You know he'll be back. He won't leave you."

"I..." He gave a tiny shake of his head and his eyes dropped. "I don't..." His fists shook. His voice shriveled. "What if dad is right?" She saw the muscles of his jaw clenching over and over. "Why wouldn't he take me? We're a... a team." The last words were whispered, all else having been forgotten. Including her.

It had been a rough morning. And now she stood looking at Hiccup as though he were a reflection in a deep still pool. She saw her own doubts, the lack of clear understanding and the fear it spawned. And a new tide of anger welled up. It was split equally, however. She'd doubted, he doubted. She'd feared, he feared. And Folkvardr had shown her the foolishness of her doubts. The anger at herself for doubting the dragon rivaled only her anger at Hiccup for doubting Toothless.

Astrid couldn't very well hit herself so she let Hiccup have both halves. She stepped close, made a fist and punched him hard enough in the shoulder to turn him halfway around. He staggered and almost fell. She'd actually forgotten his false leg didn't let him handle such movements easily.

"OW!"

Good. He was paying attention. She let the anger out; not all the way because some of it was hers and belonged only to her. She would address her own flaws later, in her own way. But for him she spared nothing of what he deserved.

"Don't you dare."

He was torn between his worry for Toothless and her inexplicable attack. She needed to be clearer.

"Don't you dare think that way about him. You know better." The words were a growl, as low and fierce as she could make them. She was making no idle threats. And he was listening; she could see it in his face. He'd heard her words and was trying to puzzle them out. He needed a little more help. "He's _your_ dragon and _I_ know him better than that."

Hiccup rubbed his arm, frowning and looking hurt. Slowly, though, the frown faded and a tiny glimmer of hope shone in his eyes. One more push.

"Hiccup, whatever's going on, we can figure it out. With their help." She didn't need to elaborate on who 'they' were. He knew. "Folkvardr was gone this morning. I... I worried about him." She hesitated as she heard a sound behind her; heavy footsteps, coming near her. Without turning or looking behind her, she waited. A hint of warmth came to her right ear and she reached up to caress the scaly jowl, never taking her eyes from Hiccup. "He came back. Toothless will come back." The powerful jaw she rubbed brushed gently against her neck. She could have kissed the dragon in that moment, knowing he was helping the best way he knew how.

A slow, gradual smile crept across his face. He nodded. "Yeah. You're right. He wouldn't leave me. Not forever." After a moment the smile faded. "But why did he leave? And why wouldn't he take me?"

She wanted to answer him. She'd come to him searching for her own answers and found he had none. But Astrid was just as ignorant of the Fury's whereabouts and intentions as he was. There were also the other questions she'd considered this morning, but she didn't raise them. Things were complicated enough. Thinking back to that moment of decision that morning, she realized she did have a simple and practical solution to offer.

She tipped her head toward her Nadder. "How about we go looking for him?"

His eyes lit up and she grinned. Within moments they were airborne.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2013

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN **The closer this comes to its conclusion the harder I have to work to make sure all the threads come together. Sorry for the wait but it doesn't look like I'll be able to speed this along like I'd prefer. I also realize this might count as another cliffhanger but now that things are starting to gain momentum it's hard to find good places to stop the action.

Thanks for reading and for sticking with me this long.


	26. Momentum

Broken

Chapter 26: Momentum

Everything hurt. His back hurt worst but not enough to make the other hurts less noticeable. His thighs were cramping, his calves were burning and his knees were turning to seaweed. His shoulders ached and his arms felt like they were only one good pull from ripping out of their sockets. Spikes of pain rode up and down his neck, his wrists were so weak he could barely hold on and the broken blisters on both hands made him want very much to let go.

But he couldn't. If he let go he would lose everything he wanted. The pain was temporary, he told himself. If he could just ignore it a while longer he was sure he would secure his place. Everything hinged on getting to the Widow's Tooth. It couldn't be much farther. He'd been at it so long now.

But he wouldn't look. He had to concentrate. Oars up, oars forward, oars down and PULL! He thought he heard something pop in his right shoulder and a small, hot bubble of pain burst deep inside. He grimaced but said nothing. Up, forward, down, PULL! The bubble got bigger.

He paused only briefly between pulls, rolling his right shoulder, trying to work out the pain.

Spitelout frowned.

With a frown of his own, Tuffnut swung the oars again and pulled. The little skiff moved a tiny bit closer to the Widow's Tooth. They had to be close. The shore had moved noticeably since the last time he looked. But he didn't want to look. If he did and the Tooth was still far away it would kill him. He wouldn't look.

Rowing was nothing new to Tuffnut. Everyone old enough to pull up a net wound up fishing and anyone who went fishing had to row. But fishing only took you a day or two or maybe three away from Berk. And there was always wind to help, if it was blowing the right way. The trading mission was going to take Rorik far beyond the horizon of his island. They might have to row for weeks.

Tuff had managed to talk Spitelout into considering him for the voyage. The chief's second had wanted a test, though. He hadn't expected it to be too difficult. He knew how to row. All he had to do was row halfway around Berk to the Widow's Tooth, a sea stack large enough to have been named, before noon. The sun was nearing noon and the last time he'd looked he'd spotted the Tooth. They were so close. All he had to do was keep rowing and not looking. He could do it.

He looked.

He wished he hadn't.

He had to hurry. Everything hurt and he wasn't going to make it if he didn't hurry. Tuffnut tried to put all the pain out of his mind and focus on pulling the oars. Up, forward, down and PULL!

Spitelout's gaze narrowed, as if he didn't like what he was seeing. That put an icicle of fear up his spine. If Spitelout didn't see a worthy oarsman he wouldn't make the recommendation to Stoick. If Stoick didn't approve Tuffnut's going on the voyage he would be trapped on Berk forever. Up, forward, down and PULL!

He would get away. He needed to see more of Midgard. He needed to have adventures and become famous and important. He wanted to marry a chief's daughter. He had to get to the Tooth. Up, forward, down and WHAM!

Bright sparkles flitted in from the edges of the dark that had laid siege to his vision. A muffled voice made strange grunting sounds. A hand, rough and calloused, touched his forehead. Then cold water splashed across his face. Some of it went up his nose and he flinched violently. He coughed and sneezed twice. His head rang and the world was heaving up and down.

The rough hand pried up one of his eyelids and Spitelout's distorted, bristly face wavered in front of him. His head rang like a warning bell.

He heard waves slapping against the rocking skiff and remembered where he was. Tuffnut looked up at Spitelout, the high noon sun directly over his wide shoulder.

"What'd I hit?"

Spitelout leaned back. "Yer head."

That made no sense.

"I hit my head with the boat?" Tuffnut tried to sit up and failed. He realized his aching head was being cushioned by a coil of rope. He reached gingerly around and touched the back of his skull. He found an amazingly tender lump that shrieked at him when his fingers brushed across it.

"Other way round." Spite pointed to the gunwale just over his head. "Hit the boat with yer head."

He tried again to get up and managed to haul himself partway to his seat. He looked over the gunwale and saw the Tooth still too far in the distance. He slumped back down.

Miserable in his failure, Tuffnut dreaded his future. What would he do now? He looked up at Spitelout. Stoick's second stared at him dispassionately. "I guess I'm not going, huh?"

The older man tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanged. His hips swayed effortlessly with the rocking of the skiff while his upper body stayed perfectly still. It was as though the boat were nothing more than a huge wooden foot he used for walking on the restless sea.

"You rowed until your hands bled." He grabbed one oar and pulled it down until the red stained wood was in front of his nose. "You rowed past the blood, past the pain. Rowed until the blood made it too slippery to hold and threw your brains onto the prow." He dropped the oar, which splashed back down into the water with a rattling thump. Spitelout pointed to Tuffnut. "You've the heart of a Viking. Just not the arms of one."

Tuff looked at his bloody hands, only now feeling the damage he'd done to them. He sighed.

Spitelout looked up at the sun and then off toward the Tooth. "You got close. I'm not saying no." He frowned again at the young man. "I'm not saying yes, either. Not yet."

Tuffnut didn't know what that meant so he didn't know what to feel. Except tired and sore and hungry and thirsty. And tired.

He was content to let Spitelout grab his shirt and lift him from the bow. They changed places without rocking the skiff overmuch. Within moments they were headed back, the nose of the little skiff rising and falling in time to the powerful strokes Spite put into the oars. Sprawled out in the stern of the small vessel, it took only a few long blinks for Tuff to succumb to his exhaustion.

* * *

The steel was singing. From the light 'ting' of accidental contact as they stood slightly apart to the louder 'clang' of a parried thrust or the 'clunk' of a blocked cut, it was all music to Snotlout's ears. He savored every note he wrung from Mord's blade, certain he would end the song of battle with victory.

He'd convinced the weapon's master to engage him in a prolonged practice session to help ready him for the brutal rigors of true combat. It hadn't taken much, just a tap on the shoulder and a small warning: "Today's the day, old man. However long it takes, I'm gonna walk away the winner." He'd held up his blunted training blade, grinning.

Snotlout had finally figured out what Mord meant when he constantly yelled, "Patience! Let yer opponent do the hard work for ye!" When going against the younger Jaspin, he found the boy's energy would sometimes make up for his lack of skill. When he started backing off a bit from his own attacks and letting Hogknee's son wear himself out, it started to make sense. Once Jaspin was gasping and soaked in sweat, he would step in and press the boy hard.

It eventually occurred to him that Mord, being the old man that he was, couldn't be in as good a fighting condition as someone his age. If he could press the old man just hard enough for long enough, he'd have him worn out and ready for defeat.

And it was working. They'd been going at it most of the morning. At first Snotlout would get caught up in the fight and have to force himself to back off. And Mord was undeniably good. It was hard to get him to press an attack. So he'd started making little comments, remarks about how close Mord was to his final battle. At first they didn't seem to have an effect. But the longer their session went on, the more reaction he got.

First it was an annoyed frown and a couple of vigorous swipes to force Snotlout to back up a few steps. He reminded himself that Mord was still a dangerous opponent, not just an old man. When the frown deepened and the swings he blocked began hitting harder, he felt a small thrill. Mord was now responding the way he'd hoped.

It became a strange balancing act. He found that pushing the weapons master too hard roused an anger that was very hard to deflect. He'd had to back off a bit himself and concentrate on keeping Mord's flashing blade at bay. When the old man would step back to take a breath and rest, Snotlout would push him again to keep him moving.

Now Mord was really mad. He'd told Snotlout to shut up several times and the anger was plain on his face. His wiry hair was getting limp with sweat and his black wool tunic was stained with it. He could hear the old man's breathing getting harder as he tried to force Snotlout back. The younger man used Mord's advice against him and spent only as much energy as he needed to keep up his defense.

Snot stepped in and took a few hard cuts at Mord, trying to judge how tired he was. And to his amazement he saw the anger in the weapons master's face change to concern. He pressed harder and saw a moment of real doubt in those eyes. He had him!

"It's over old man! You're done for! I'm too much for you and you know it!"

The doubt evaporated and a simmering fury took its place. But the efforts of the morning had taken their toll. Snotlout was tired, very tired but he could still keep his practice weapon between Mord's blade and his own body. Mord was yelling, wordless shrieks that preceded each swing. Snot blocked, parried, slipped his point into a small opening that presented itself and just missed poking Mord in the thigh.

The music was harsh yet sweet to Snot's ears. It had become the song of the Valkyries; the clash of metal, the shouts of anger and the heavy panting breath of the imminent loser.

Suddenly Mord's eyes went wide and he stepped back. He lowered his sword, panting and wiping his brow. "Look," he gasped, "this has... gone on... long enough."

Breathing heavily but not yet winded, Snot grinned savagely. "You're right Mord. It's time to... finish this." And in he went. His high cut was blocked but only by a finger's length. Using both hands he reversed his attack and came at Mord low, aiming for the knees. The old man's blade didn't move fast enough but his desperate hop backwards did. It also put him off balance.

Snotlout pressed again, using that brief advantage. Mord stumbled yet managed to keep the next sweeping cut from smacking into his helmet. His eyes were wide as more blows came. He had to step back again and again to stay out of Snot's reach. When the very tip of the boy's blade nicked his tunic's shoulder he shouted, "Stop!" He held up both hands, his right barely able to hold the sword and his left shaking visibly.

The younger man took a step back, wanting to enjoy every moment of his victory. He was greatly looking forward to telling his father the tale over supper that evening. Maybe he'd have a mug of ale in the great hall afterward and tell the rest of Berk about his success.

"There's somethin'... I have to... tell ye." Mord placed his hands on his knees, not quite collapsing but close to it. The sweat dripped from his notched nose to the ground.

"That you yield?" Snotlout tried to keep his own heavy breathing to a minimum, not wanting to appear weak in any way.

Mord gave a grunting laugh and shook his head. "Yer... definitely getting better."

"BETTER?" He didn't care for that. He took a half step forward, ready to end it.

"But there's somethin' important... ye haven't learned yet."

He took up a fighting stance once more. "What's that?"

Mord suddenly stood up, stopped panting and straightened his helmet. Every sign of exhaustion he'd showed melted away. Only the sweat on his brow remained, beaded above eyes that showed a wicked delight. "Never believe anything yer opponent tells ye." His treacherous steel flashed.

The next minute was a rapid shift from confusion to fear as Mord unleashed attacks on Snotlout that the boy had never before encountered. Even as he struggled to defend against the frighteningly fast strikes that came raining down on him, he felt the weapons master lash out with fists and feet whenever he was close enough, bruising him with kicks and blows he never expected. He felt a furious anger; Mord had never shown him any of that!

Mord did something that looked crazy; he ducked low with one leg folded and the other thrust out to the side. Using the flat of his practice blade he slammed the steel into Snot's left ankle, sending a white hot spike of pain into the joint. Off balance and in serious pain, Snotlout could do nothing as the top of Mord's helmet rushed up to ram him in the stomach. He fell straight back onto his rump, his sword jarred from his hand and his tailbone stinging as it hit the ground.

With a frustrated grunt, Snotlout tried to get up only to have the rounded point of Mord's practice weapon appear before his eyes. "So, has the old man taught ye anythin' today?" He looked up at the calm grin and untroubled eyes of the older warrior. He grabbed the end of the blade and used it to help himself up, suppressing a groan as Mord gave a helpful pull.

"Yeah," he groused. "Never fight fair if you can help it."

Mord slapped him on the shoulder. "He learns!"

Snotlout retrieved his sword, unsure what he wanted to do next. He glanced at Mord, considered a moment and then sheathed it silently.

"I was serious," Mord nodded at the sheathed blade. "Ye really are gettin' better. With enough practice and a little luck you can be a fierce warrior. One of Berk's best, someday."

The young man glanced at him. "Yeah?"

Mord nodded. "But ye still got a lot to learn about patience. Ye got to learn to use yer brain, not just yer arms."

Snotlout scoffed. "You want me to be like Hiccup?"

"Lad, nobody can be like Hiccup except Hiccup, and thank Thor for that." Mord sighed. "But there's more to it than that. Ye were starting to get the idea today. Ye have to understand _who_ your opponent is, _what_ he is. Ye got to get behind his eyes and see what he sees."

"What? See what he sees?" Snot shook his head. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"Ugh." Mord's eyes rolled skyward in frustration. "What did ye see this morning?" He pointed at himself.

"An old man?" Snot guessed.

"A tired old man, worn out and barely able to move." He pointed to his student. "Tha's what I wanted ye to see."

"So you're saying I should act tired in battle?" Snotlout's disdain for such an idea was obvious.

"No, ye daft yak tail!"

A loud, growling roar kept him from explaining further. A familiar black and red dragon swept down on them and landed nearby.

Asgeirr moved close to his rider, ignoring the weapon in his hand. He pressed the tip of his muzzle into the young Viking's chest and made a soft crooning sound. It sounded suspiciously like a noise an animal might make if it was frightened and that confused Snotlout.

"What's wrong with you?" He laid his empty hand on the sloping snout and rubbed gently. He looked the dragon in the eyes and found them wide and worried. What could have caused this? "Are you hungry or something?"

"Nay, that beast doesn't look hungry to me," the weapons master said quietly. "He looks spooked."

Snotlout looked insulted. "What? Are you mad? What could 'spook' a Monstrous Nightmare?"

Mord nodded grimly at the dragon. "Aye, an' that's exactly the question I'm asking myself right now."

* * *

Grima Thorston planted her hands on her wide, abundant hips and scowled as only a mother could scowl.

"Well, by Odin! Listen to this! And all this time I thought it was Tuffnut your father dropped on his head as a babe!"

Ruffnut said nothing but scowled with equal intensity, making sure to aim her own displeased expression at the fish they were cleaning and not the woman who didn't understand her.

"And what's wrong with being married, eh? That's what us women-folk do! Get married, have children, raise a family! How else can a village stay alive if no one has children?" With expert swiftness and surety she sliced fillets and laid them on an oiled cloth to be salted that afternoon.

"There's no one on Berk I want to marry," she grumbled, knowing full well where the argument would go next. She lopped off the head and tail of the next fish in the basket and chucked them into a different basket to be taken to her dragon.

"Thor's trousers, girl!" Grima threw her hands up in exasperation. "There's plenty of good stock wandering around, take your pick! It don't matter if they're a little old or a little young, just as long as they're sound between the ears and between the legs."

Ruffnut grunted in disgust. Her mother saw everything in the simplest terms and refused to be swayed to other ways of thinking. And her daughter's behavior defied good common sense, in her view. But she was convinced there were better choices than the ones she could see, the ones that had been around since long before Grima was born.

To her dismay, she had yet to figure out what those choices were. She only knew she cared nothing about the ones her mother constantly endorsed.

The only answer Ruffnut could give to her mother's statement was, "I don't want any of them!" Deep in her heart, to her shame, that was mostly a lie. Yet it was also irrelevant because what she did want was confusing and impossible.

"Stop acting the child, Ruff!" And now, like a hundred year old tradition, came the next part of the same argument they'd had so many times before. "I didn't really want Eirik, either. But he was the best choice of what there was at the time. And he made a good husband and a decent father until his head got broke." She waved her thin bladed knife around at the inside of their home. "Built us a good house, several times over, always brought home plenty to eat, killed many a drag... well, you know."

Ruffnut knew yet it changed nothing. She didn't want what was offered and didn't know exactly what she _did_ want. The only thing she did know for certain was that she seemed destined to be unhappy with her life.

The rest of the morning passed in a slog of smelly fish guts and pointless advice from her mother. When the fish were cleaned and the other small chores around their house had been finished, Ruffnut went outside with the basket of offal to Bjalki and Bjarki. The Zippleback was sprawled in the bright sunshine, one long neck laying crossed over the other and each head barely keeping its eyes open. Bjalki rose up immediately while Bjarki regarded her with mild curiosity. When the smell of fish guts reached them, both came instantly alert. Food was a unifying force for a Zippleback.

She went to the usual grassy spot near the house and emptied the contents of her basket in a long arc. Their dragon would often refuse to eat food covered in dirt but didn't seem to mind bits of grass or leaves mixed in with their fish guts. She watched as each head began picking at opposite ends of the arc and working their way toward the center. Bjalki favored the heads while Bjarki would scrounge for the tails first. Entrails were cleaned up after the choice morsels were gone.

Sometimes she wished she and Tuffnut were a Zippleback. The sense of connection between them could only be stronger if they shared the same body. Other times she wished he'd never been born at all. Not often, though.

For all their fights and bickering and pranks, Tuff was the only one on the entire island who really understood her. Sometimes they could have whole conversations without saying a word. A glance, an expression, a twitch of an eyebrow or a hitch of a shoulder could say a whole sentence.

Her twin brother was the only one in Berk who understood her and now he wanted to go away. She couldn't imagine the kind of hole that would leave in her life.

The only other one she'd really taken an interest in was also out of her reach. Hiccup was nearly as strange as she was. He didn't understand her but he did seem to share that sense of difference, of... separation from the rest of the tribe. It didn't matter, though. Just as she'd told Astrid, Hiccup was bound for a different future. Unless he ran away. Or flew away.

"What should I do, Bjalki?" The right head had been licking the left head clean of blood and fish slime. Watching their dragon groom itself was often as bizarre a form of entertainment as some of its other behaviors. It swiveled its long neck to look at her. Bjalki gurgled at her, emitting a tiny hint of greenish gas. "Should we fly off on our own?"

He sniffed at her briefly before growling at Bjarki. The two made noises at each other for a moment before collapsing on the grass for another nap. Ruffnut took advantage and climbed onto Bjalki's neck.

"Come on, let's go. I don't care where; let's just get out of here."

The neck wriggled beneath her, trying to get comfortable. Bjalki's eyes closed. Bjarki bumped her helmet with her snout and gibbered something at her. Ruffnut kicked her heels into Bjalki's neck but the lazy lizard just ignored her.

Eventually realizing she couldn't get her dragon to go anywhere, she collapsed backwards, slid off his neck and wound up on the soft grass. Luckily for her it was nowhere near the arc of fish guts.

"Stupid dragon."

* * *

He wasn't worried.

So far Thunderguts' behavior had stayed 75% true to form. Since Fishlegs hadn't yet seen a Gronckle's behavior up close over an entire year he felt this was an acceptable margin of error. She still slept a lot, ate a lot and got understandably grouchy if interrupted during either. She seemed to enjoy the few flights they were able to have, when his work didn't interfere.

There were other things, though. Mostly they were just quirks in her normal routine, strange little displays when other dragons were near. It wasn't territorial; at least it didn't appear to be. One of the remaining dragons on Berk would wander by and Thunderguts would rouse herself to greet them. Then they would sit together and growl at each other. It was almost as if they were talking.

She'd been gone a lot the last few weeks, however. Fishlegs had been watching the other dragons and looking for changes in their behavior as spring fully bloomed on the island. He'd been paying close attention to the other Gronckles as well as his own. When he started to notice the gradual decline in the dragon population he considered telling Hiccup about it. Before he could he overheard two different conversations that proved the change had already been noticed. One was in the great hall, between Bram Blacktongue and Grumblemud. The other was two sentences passed between a pair of fishermen on the docks. One man said, "They might all be gone before long." The other had grunted back, "Fine by me."

He'd still wanted to talk to Hiccup about the strange disappearance of dragons. The chief's son, however, had become difficult to find as well. He was seldom in any of the places he could usually be found. The one time Fishlegs happened to see him some distance away, he could tell by the way he was walking and the fact that he was headed to his house that the junior Haddock was not having a good day.

Still, he wasn't worried. Dragons were wild creatures full of mystery and if there was a new discovery to be made soon because of the changes they were seeing, well, he should be excited if anything.

He should be. But he wasn't.

Thunderguts was gone a lot lately and he missed her. Even if she slept most of the time he was still enthralled by the fact that there was a _dragon_ sleeping right next to his house. Last autumn that would have been unthinkable.

The hefty young man shook his head and got back to sawing lumber. Daydreaming wouldn't get any barrels built.

Before he could finish the cut he heard the familiar buzzing drone of Gronckle wings. The heavy thud of her landing brought a smile to his face. "I'm back here!" he announced cheerfully.

Gronckles are hefty, stout dragons and they don't walk well. Actually they don't really walk at all. They waddle. In fact, it's more of a crawling waddle. If anyone had ever forced him to describe it, Fishlegs would have had to say that when Thunderguts walked it looked to him like two really large people tied back to front trying to walk together.

Her large, lumpy face came around the corner of his work shed and she headed straight for him. He set down his saw and stepped toward her. "Hey girl!" Heavily muscled arms went wide and framed her enormous head as she pushed her blunt snout into his chest. "Oof!" She pushed against him, rubbing her nose into his shirt and sniffing him with deep, gusty breaths. When she stopped sniffing she started growling.

The growling didn't worry him. Dragons made all kinds of noises but mostly they were different kinds of growls. It wasn't much different than the kinds of meows a cat would use; they were all still meows.

"Did you miss me?"

The growls changed. They became chattery with pops and hisses and clicks and screechy chirps. He'd never heard a Gronckle chirp before. That was a sound a Nadder made.

"What's the matter, Guts? Are you hungry?" He had no idea when she might have eaten last. She had a considerable appetite, much like he did. She usually took care of feeding herself.

Thunderguts gave him a look and then made a weird 'chuff' sound. Then she just stared at him.

"Umm..."

Chuff.

"Are you... ok?"

The Gronckle waddled over to his pile of lumber and picked up his newest board. She sat down and began chewing on the end of it.

"Hey! What are you doing? I need that!" He tried to grab the end of it and pull it away from her but she growled loudly at him like she would if he woke her from a nap. Then she chuffed again and went back to chewing. "Oh, come on. Can't you find a branch or a small tree or something? Does it have to be one of my staves?"

Chuff.

Annoyed, Fishlegs gave up on the stave and went back to cutting the next one. This would have to count as part of the 25% of her behavior that was definitely not true to form.

Chuff.

"Yeah, whatever. Go ahead, eat my work. I can make more."

The sound of her chewing the board got louder and softer, as though she were biting different size chunks of wood off it. Thunderguts was a good friend. She had killed a viper that could have bit him. She always flew in nice, steady ways that didn't upset his stomach. It was hard to be mad at her. But why did she have to ruin one of his staves?

Chuff. From right by his elbow.

"What?" He turned to see her standing there, a piece of wood in her mouth and the ragged remains of the shortened stave laying where she'd been just moments ago. "Doesn't it taste good enough? Would you rather have some pine or something?"

She 'chuffed' the bit of wood in her mouth directly at him and he reflexively caught it. He only glanced at it, covered in tooth marks and drool as it was. "Sorry, I'm not hungry for hardwood today."

Chuff. Chuff. Guts looked at the gnawed bit in his hands, back up to him.

"Is this a present or something?" Strangely, that idea appealed to him. He thought it would be really nice if his dragon thought enough of him to make a gift for him. It was a shame she couldn't make anything more useful than a shortened stave and a weird dragon chew toy. He looked at it again, noticing that it almost looked like it had a head with an open mouth.

Looking closer, he saw it had a whole body when he turned it a certain way. On one end there was a thick, heavy tail with a large club on the end. Two grooved stubs on the bottom would be the paired front and back legs. And the large, open mouthed head was-

"Uhhhh..."

It was familiar. It was the stuff of his nightmares; a huge clawed foot filling his vision, descending with terrifying speed, coming to crush him into the ground. Movement shook the world with every step. Roars made his ears ache. It was Nidhoggr come to kill all of Berk and it sat in his hand, its six eyes darkly hollow and filled with dragon spit.

Now he was worried.

* * *

Jaspin had left his house early that morning, wanting a quick flight around the island before he went to Kabbi's for his next tanning lesson. He didn't much care for leather craft and couldn't seem to get used to the smell but he understood that it was expected of him. While he took it as seriously as he did all his other duties, he would never learn to enjoy it.

Luckily Bitequick was sleeping on the roof when he came out. While his Deadly Nadder still stayed around Berk she had been disappearing for short spells during the day. Every time she took off he felt a little sliver of fear prick his chest; would that be the last time he saw her? Was the time coming when she would leave for good like most of the other dragons?

He didn't have to whistle to her. Her eyes opened the instant he came out the door. She literally jumped off the roof and landed with a single hard flap and a flexing of her legs. She'd come down so close to him that one wing was momentarily draped over his bare head, the thin flexible membrane feeling like a warm blanket that briefly covered his head and shoulders. She furled her wings and twisted her head around to push her nose directly into his midriff. Snorting and rubbing her snout into his belly, she welcomed him with such affection that Jaspin laughed aloud in sheer pleasure. He had her saddled quickly and they took off without delay.

He'd skipped breakfast so when they came back less than an hour later, he was ready to eat. He wanted more than the oaten porridge that was likely being made at home so he directed Bite toward the great hall. He'd been able to earn a few silver pennies of his own lately and it would be nice to stride into the hall and buy a meal from Freya like any adult would. While he would never admit it to anyone, he also thought the fare served in the hall was far better than what was available at home.

To his surprise, his father was striding out of the great hall just as they landed. There was something in his hands, a long thin bundle wrapped in cloth. At first it confused him. Then a shiver of excitement came over him. Was it possible his oldest fantasy was about to be realized? His heart nearly ran away with him.

Bitequick called to Hogknee, recognizing him. His father looked up at them as they descended. The look on his face told the story and Jaspin realized his second greatest wish was, indeed, about to come true. But there was more than the surprise at seeing them and the pleasure of what was about to transpire in his father's eyes. There was something of sadness as well. Jaspin gripped his saddle harder and forced himself to rein in his excitement. This moment was not just about him. This was important to Hogknee as well. He would keep the idea of buying his own meal in his mind and approach his father with as much maturity as he could.

Landing and dismounting came naturally now, but Jaspin caught something else in his father's eyes at just that moment. He'd seen it now and again. It had confused him for some time but his mother had finally explained. Hogknee still had moments when he found it unnerving to see his own son cavorting with a dragon. He couldn't forget that the Nadder his son rode so casually was capable of killing him with a careless blow or a single bolt of rainbow-hued fire. It was getting easier for him as the months passed but it still bothered him at times. Jaspin took a moment to rub Bitequick's round jaw and give her a teasing little scratch near her ear canal. She trembled in pleasure for a second, trilling softly.

With a smile that was both for his favored friend and for what he suspected was in the man's hands, he turned to his father. "Morning, da. Any ham left?"

Hogknee Vapnfjord gave a tiny shake of his head, bringing himself back to the moment. A smile of genuine warmth came to his lips and he said, "Aye, but best you wait. She just put a tray of honey bread in the oven."

Jaspin grinned. Could the day get any better?

Hogknee took a step forward, his expression easing toward a gentle seriousness. "Son, I've something for you."

The boy struggled to keep his eyes on his father's face and project a relaxed interest. "Oh?"

His father saw the effort and smiled again. "I think you know what this is." He held up the long, cloth-wrapped object. He smiled wider as Jaspin grinned in boyish anticipation. Once more his face and voice became more serious. This was an important moment. "I've talked to Mord. I even spoke to Spitelout and Snotlout. We all agree. It's time you had this."

Maturity waned and his breath came short. It was really happening! His eyes widened and his grin made his cheeks ache slightly.

Hogknee unwrapped the sword and flicked the old cloth over his shoulder. It was his own father's favorite blade, stored in a special place in the great hall for safe keeping. Jaspin had been allowed to see it a few times but had never held it. His father had promised him it would be his when he was ready. Asbjorn Vapnfjord, the story went, had died with it in his hands battling a pair of determined Gronckles.

As it was, Jaspin could only tell it was his grandfather's sword by the beautifully polished blue and white stone skillfully mounted in the grip. When he'd seen it, the blade had been stored in a greased cloth to keep the rust away and had never had a scabbard. Now it rested in a brand new leather sheathe with an image of a Nadder tooled into it. It was more than Jaspin could have hoped for. The only thing he'd ever wanted more was the friendship of the living version of the leather dragon on the scabbard, and he'd only come to desire her companionship half a year ago.

Jaspin was reluctant to hold out his hand to take the blade. Hogknee, seeing an opportunity to add a little more flourish to the special moment, gripped the handle and quickly slid it free. The sword flashed in the morning sunlight.

Bitequick gave a startled squawk and took a step back, her wings partially extending. Jaspin could understand her reaction, since she was probably unprepared for the sudden motion. What he hadn't quite expected was Hogknee's reaction to her reaction. With the blade exposed and held up in his hand, his focus suddenly came directly to her. The cords of his arm stood out and his hand tightened on the sword's grip. His eyes were the most worrisome, however. He looked as though he was prepared to use the weapon on the dragon standing directly in front of him.

Without even an instant to consider what had happened, Jaspin stepped between his dragon and his father. He noticed the bright reflection of the sun along its length and the slight difference in the light as it fell along the weapon's edge. "Did you get Gobber to clean it up and sharpen it? It looks brand new!"

It had the desired effect. His father's concentration on the Nadder fell to him instead and he quickly relaxed. With a sheepish grin for an apology, Hogknee acknowledged what his son had done. He lowered the sword, casting a brief glance at Bitequick. He turned the blade around and presented it handle first to Jaspin. "Aye. Gobber worked a bit of magic on it, he did. His own father made it for Asbjorn, you know."

"Really?" That was likely the last word Jaspin would be able to add to any conversation for a bit. The weight of the blade in his hand had become the whole of his world. He hefted it gently a few times, still hardly believing it would now be his. His gaze went up the newly polished length of steel to its wickedly pointed tip. It looked like it could go clean through the toughest leather armor Kabbi could make. It was amazing.

It took several moments for Jaspin to come back and his grin came back with him. He looked up at his father. "Thank you, da."

"You're welcome, Jaspin." As the blade was reverently place back within its scabbard, he added, "Don't use it for practice yet. You need to get used to the weight of it before you go against anyone else with it. You'd best take a walk in the woods and try trimming some trees until it feels at home in your hand."

"I will!" His grip tightened on the sheathed weapon. "Right now!" He turned to his dragon, who still stood a step back from him. "It's OK, Bitequick. Here, have a look." He held his grandfather's sword out across his palms. The Nadder tilted her head one way then the other, looking it over. Her broad nose lowered and she sniffed at it gustily. She gave a grumbling chuckle and finally furled her wings.

As he mounted the saddle, sheathed sword in hand, his father said, "What about the honey bread?"

Jaspin finally let the thrill of the morning's events come through in his shout. "I'm not hungry now!"

* * *

Rorik was nearly ready. The last few gaps between the strakes he'd replaced were now sealed with wool soaked in tar made from pine trees. He'd used an old broken knife to press the wool in as tightly as possible, making sure of the seal by pouring buckets of water over the repairs from the inside and looking for leaks on the outside of the hull.

Normally such repairs would be allowed to fully cure over the long winter before the ship would be put back into the water. The damage to Rorik had been well above the waterline, though, so he saw no harm it letting the ship sail with the repair still raw. Both Spitelout and Gobber were eager to head out and were certainly not going to wait months for a few lengths of tarred wool to harden.

Ingifast was wearing the new top rail smooth with a curved stone to prevent splinters from biting hands or rumps that rubbed against it. It was a slow, tedious job but he took pride in properly finishing any boat on which he worked. As often happened, his visitor was able to approach without him noticing. The sound and motion and gradual change in the wood had filled his mind until a voice from close by hailed him.

"Hoy, Ingifast! How's it go?"

The old shipwright had reached the end of a stroke and was about to draw the stone back toward him. He turned the twitch of startlement into the next smooth stroke of the stone before he looked up at the intruder. It was Stonetoss, probably headed to the woods to hunt. He didn't look like he was terribly serious about it, though. His bow was unstrung, hanging loosely from his hand and his quiver only held two shafts. He wasn't the best archer in Berk by a long measure so likely spending those two arrows would give him an excuse to come back early if he wasn't successful.

"Nearly done," Ingifast answered in measured tones. "She'll be as ready for the sea as I can make her." He was sitting astride the rail, one leg dangling outside the hull and over the stony beach. He slowly ran the stone back and forth a few more times and then slid his hand over the new wood, looking for the smoothness he wanted.

Stonetoss watched him silently for several minutes. The younger man never cared about woodworking or ship building but was as relentless a gossip as any on the island. Ingifast thought it likely he had something on his mind and couldn't find any good way to-

"What do you think they'll find?"

The shipwright grunted and paused mid-stroke. He looked down at Stonetoss, the man's upturned face hopeful for some bit of information he could pass on as his own. He didn't care much for gossips and had no interest in providing fodder for one. "I'm sure I don't know."

"Maybe other tribes?"

Ingifast went back to smoothing the rail, giving only a grunt for an answer.

"Do you think we'll join with them?"

He didn't even grunt this time. It was obvious Stonetoss wanted someone else to give some credence to an idea he had so he could spread it around as rumor.

"Maybe they would help us get rid of the rest of the dragons for good, eh?"

Now Ingifast stopped his work and stared down at the other man. A frown settled on his wrinkled, weather beaten face. "You want to start that again? When we've just started to get ourselves settled?" He spat onto Rorik's deck. "War's over. Let it stay over."

Stonetoss scowled indignantly up at him. "They're stealing food! They took sheep right out of the pens! I heard that Sigurd Clayfoot-"

The old man's patience was wearing and he wanted Stonetoss gone. "What of it? Folks have taken more than that from each other without dragons even being involved."

"But they're raiding us!" Stonetoss projected scorn as though he had been victimized himself. "Grumblemud said he heard Spitelout saying-"

"Enough!" Ingifast raised his sanding rock and cocked his arm back as though to hurl it. "I want no more of your whispers and worries! Go crawl under your blanket and wait for the dragons to attack again! Like as not Ragnarok will come first!"

Stonetoss hadn't flinched at the threat of a rock thrown by an old man but he did glare angrily as he walked away, muttering sourly about daft old men and promises to inform his betters. Ingifast watched him go off into the woods, hoping he would take the hint and stay away from the boatyard in future. "Fool," he groused quietly. "Can't even let an old man be to do his work."

It was true there had been a raid. Yrsa and Signy had been given a fright but not harmed. It was also troubling that after half a year of peace with their old adversaries that dragons would go back to stealing food. But Ingifast had learned a few things in his long life. One of the most important was that even when events seemed confusing or especially difficult, the people of Berk would get through it. The village would survive and those that carried on with their lives would learn and grow from any challenges that came along.

After all, he'd witnessed the most unlikely thing in all of Midgard: a hopeless twig of a boy riding the most dangerous dragon known to Berk. If that were possible, dealing with a few stolen sheep should pose no real danger.

The soothing sound of the rock moving back and forth over the rail soon eased his mind and he thought no more of it.

* * *

He circled the nest from a great distance well before the sun's rising. He had been as cautious as a fledgling testing the airs around his egg nest. As before, Two Hearts saw and heard no evidence of the Kin living in Fire Nest. But there was a question that had to be answered. He intended to circle his old nest until he had the knowledge he needed.

He had never imagined his life's flight would wind up in such a place. He carved a great circuit around his old nest, thinking on the incredible changes he had experienced. He'd been grounded, befriended a preytooth, been given the power of flight once more by that same preytooth. Together they'd grounded the Great Eel. And now he was once again the watcher, trying to determine if another of that kind had lodged itself within his old nest.

While he was certain he could detect the presence of such a being, he was far less certain what he would do about it. Memories and fears crowded out reasonable thoughts when he tried to consider the possibility he might face another gigantic foe. Before, when he and Featherstone had gone against the Great Eel, there'd been everything to gain. Now there was everything to lose.

He couldn't stand the thought of such loss.

The sun joined the sky, sending the stars into hiding for another day. Still Two Hearts circled Fire Nest. He was prepared for what had nearly grounded him before. The scent of death was just as powerful, just as threatening as before. This time, instead of fleeing in ignorance he let it in. It still burned his nose and filled his lungs with the taint of decay. He knew the source. The body of the Great Eel was doing what all Kin did in death. Those essences that gave them the power of fire could not remain without life to create and contain them. After a Kin's final breath joined the air those essences would begin to work their way out of the shell that remained. Upon touching the air, they would smolder and smoke, slowly destroying the body that once held them. That scent of death was normal and expected upon the loss of any Kin.

But the Great Eel had been of an unthinkable size. Therefore those essences of its fire had been equally large and powerful. It truly gave the impression that death had taken all Kin within Fire Nest at one time.

Into the wind which bore that scent he flew, over and over. He circled, watching and scenting and waiting.

When the sun was overhead and his shadow slid over the waters directly below him, he finally caught another scent, nearly overwhelmed by the smell of death. It was the scent of another of that breed. He knew it all too well. Two Hearts had his answer.

He also had a problem he had no way to solve.

Still he circled the infected nest, keeping well away even though he had yet to be susceptible to its influence. He would not take any unneeded chances. After finally scenting the new intruder he could pick out the scents of the other Kin within the nest. They were there as well; their scents were weak with distance and the overpowering stench of the Great Eel's decaying body but he could track them now. He circled and thought. And remembered.

Some time after sun-high he finally saw Kin approaching Fire Nest. Even from his great distance he could tell they flew laden with food, their wings laboring under the greatest load they could carry. Rage kindled in his liver. Fire Nest had just been freed! Now all Kin within would become thrall once again. It was unbearable!

But what could he do? And what price would he and his flight mate have to pay this time?

Two Hearts circled and thought. The sun fell once more and brushed its edge against the ocean. Only one thing came clear to him: he must protect his new nest and his flight mate from this new threat. He would give his flight permanently if needed. He even believed he would cast himself down to let his own essences escape into the air if it would rid the nest of its invader.

But the thought of being taken from his flight mate packed his liver with ice and he thought no more of dying in service to his old nest. He could do nothing to wound his flight mate in such a way.

So what could he do?

He could only think, and remember.

When the sun was gone and the stars once more covered the sky, he was still without an answer. Finally he gave in and carefully twisted his sticks to head for home.

* * *

He had chosen his new nest well. It was large, well established and within a day's flight of rich hunting grounds. Many different breeds of Kin called its air home. It was growing, too. Numerous breeding pairs had dropped clutches and were protecting those precious objects. The season of green was well upon them and Kin always sought to strengthen their numbers at that time. Before the season passed the nest would echo with the sounds of hatchlings demanding food.

His timing could not have been better.

He was well settled and getting hungry. He'd been tempted at first to go after the easiest choice and had taken a stonebelly. Before he could finish it his dam's voice had roared out from memory: "Never eat Kin except when survival demands it." She was not present, he knew, but he felt a strong compulsion to obey her warning. The rest of the stonebelly remained nearby.

He knew from experience he could go many and more days without eating before it would become a problem. Kin from his new nest had already begun feeding him, but not nearly enough to satiate him. He had to wait; his dam had warned him that settling a nest was the hardest time. His body was only now responding to its surroundings and its increasing needs. Soon he would be fully fed and all would be well.

If he concentrated he could still taste the squealer, pleasantly scorched and newly killed. It hadn't done anything to ease his hunger, small as it was. It had certainly fed his curiosity, though.

No story his dam had told him spoke of the strange creature that had offered the squealer to him. It was unlike any beast he'd been taught to use. He'd nearly eaten the thing itself. Before he could another curious thing happened. A nearby firescale had intervened.

It was small, a fledgling like him and not yet of breeding age. These were the only Kin who would speak to him, as they were not yet in thrall. The words the firescale had spoken confused him at first. It had asked him not to eat the thing, calling it a 'preytooth.'

The name had puzzled him and gave him reason enough to delay eating it. How could any creature designated 'prey' have the word 'tooth' attached to it? The idea defied imagination. He'd called loudly for an explanation. That had agitated the preytooth and put some fire in its liver, but he had no concern for that. The firescale, however, apparently did.

He'd watched, bemused, as the firescale placated the preytooth, placing its body between them. He was further entertained as the fledgling Kin convinced the preytooth, through patient nudges and squawks, to offer the squealer to him. This preytooth, the firescale proclaimed, was his bond partner and he asked that the squealer be accepted in the preytooth's place.

It was a Kin's place to support his kind. He'd been told no stories about such strange notions as Kin bonding with lesser creatures. It did not truly matter to him what Kin did among themselves as long as they gave fitting support and brought no sickness into the nest. He was willing to allow the preytooth to live if it continued to bring food. The firescale had said he could make certain it did.

The air was heavy with scents. A pounding rain had pushed all the interesting smells close to the ground, most notably the rotting carcass of the previous Gatherer. But he got the faintest trace of a scent that bothered him.

Deception.

Was the firescale word twisting? Would the preytooth do as it was told? The firescale was a fledgling and as yet immune to his influence. Would so puny a creature as this Kin speak falsely to the nest's new Gatherer?

And if so, to what end?

He drew in an enormous breath, tasting both Kin and preytooth with relish. He would not eat them. Not now. But he would remember them.

"What is your flight name?" The tangy, tempting wisp of fear that floated to him set him rumbling. The firescale trembled.

"I am Crush Claw."

"Will you sustain your nest's new Gatherer? Will you bring food so I may strengthen my new nest?"

There was a pause. "I will." Fear and deception in equal measure met his nostrils.

"And your preytooth?"

"He is..." The firescale fledgling regarded the odd little beast. It was pacing back and forth against the back wall of the cave. "He is Iceblood."

He crouched, bringing his large muzzle close to the ground. There was less than a tail length between them. He pushed a smoking, crackling breath from between his jaws and let the rising trickle of flame and ash curl over the point of his nose. And still he tasted deception in the air. This fledgling needed a lesson.

"Crush Claw, I am this nest's new Gatherer. My flight name is Smoketail." He didn't bother to add that he'd taken that name after staying too long in his egg nest. His dam had explained no nest could support more than one Gatherer for long and he must go as soon as he could. When he resisted leaving at the appropriate time, she'd fired his tail so brutally hard she'd scarred him. He'd fled, his tail seriously damaged and smoking behind him. Such minor details were of no concern to Kin.

"I will bring strength and power to this nest. Many Kin will call this air home. No rivals will dare approach. All will be safe here. That is the role of the Gatherers. Do you understand? Do you see the heart truth of this?"

"Yes." Fear, deception and a whiff of relief. The fledgling believed he would live. He moved closer until his massive nose just touched the firescale's chest. A terrified yelp, a noise most unsuitable for Kin, preceded a bright, stinging wave of pure fear. It burned away the deception and left nothing but more fear in its place.

"You are young. You've not yet bred. But you will stay and you WILL support me. WON'T YOU?" His roar dove down into the bones of the island and the entire nest quivered in reaction.

"Yes! Yes!" More yelping. Crush Claw had backed against the same wall as his preytooth. Satisfied, he pulled back from the frightened firescale and glanced at the other insignificant little creature. It hardly seemed worthy prey, small as it was.

It was staring back at him. That's when he finally noticed the scent it carried. It was not the same as Kin scent but it was much like any other prey scent he'd known.

Smoketail could detect fear, but it was diminishing. The softer, oilier scent of relief was rising from it, from Iceblood.

The preytooth moved away from the wall and came closer to the tip of his snout. His first instinct was to withdraw. No Kin should touch another without asking permission. Unless they were fighting.

Iceblood was making a tiny little mewling sound, a bizarre noise as equally strange as the beast itself. Smoketail was curious and so it stayed close to the ground, watching it approach.

It raised a limb. It could offer no meaningful threat so he held still and continued to watch. A small patch of warmth touched the thinner skin near one nostril. The preytooth had dared to touch him! Its companion firescale was still pressed against the wall and watching in disbelief. This was so amusing! He wondered what other entertainments this preytooth might offer.

Indeed, Smoketail had chosen his new nest well.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2013

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**A/N **Lots of things are going on, many people are slowly coming to an important juncture in their lives without yet knowing it. And the last critical player is finally revealed. Cue the dramatic music.

The next chapter may take a little longer as I need to regroup once more and make sure everything is going the right way and nothing important has been forgotten.


	27. The scent of trust

Broken

Chapter 27: The scent of trust

The moon was nearly gone and a thick layer of rainless clouds had hidden away the stars. With only the faintest light to guide him and no sound other than the gentle, steady wind that moved crossways to his new nest, Two Hearts would once have found it a relaxing night for flying. He could barely scent the bitter waters of the ocean below him. There was the faintest hint of a small island upwind, a mix of earth and sand and the milder odor of greenery that was not busy soaking up the sun. Plants growing in the days of the green season were as raucous in their scents as the prey that ate them.

While his surroundings were peaceful and calm, Two Hearts' mind was certainly not. His thoughts were as tangled as a husk full of eels and about as pleasant.

The presence of a new Gatherer in Fire Nest put a hard frost in his liver. That single Kin threatened to destroy everything he and Featherstone had done for both Fire Nest and the preytooths. Every Kin of breeding age that had gone back to Fire Nest to choose a mate and drop a clutch was now in thrall to the new invader. It was as though the Great Eel had never been grounded. The discovery left him with a feeling of helplessness that reminded him of being stuck in that large hole in the ground with an injured tail. At that time he had seen no way out and had deeply feared his situation would be the end of him.

This time he was free, able to fly on his own once more. He also had a flight mate with whom he could speak. Yet for all that had changed since Featherstone freed him from the hole in the ground, he saw no way to deal with the threat of the new Gatherer. His sire's story, told to him by his dam, had already shown the foolishness of attacking such a powerful Kin once it was in control of a nest. To attack the Gatherer would bring the whole of the nest against those who sought to free it. Their success against the Great Eel was only possible because of the preytooths; the masses on the beach that broke open the mountain, scattered the nest and drew the enormous parasite out.

The worst part, the absolute innard-twisting worst part was that the critical advantage he'd had in bringing down the Great Eel could not be used again. The preytooths may have drawn their enemy out of hiding, but it was the little one on his back that made him believe anything was possible as long as they were together. Two Hearts didn't know how he would remove the Gatherer from Fire Nest but he absolutely would not involve Featherstone in his plans. He'd managed only by the tips of his claws to keep his flight mate alive after that fierce battle. He had no intention of taking such a risk a second time.

But without his flight mate there was only himself and a mouthful of young Kin to deal with the largest threat any nest could face. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn't see a way to win against such a powerful enemy.

Two Hearts wished he could speak to Sunskin, the firescale who'd been the First Hunter of Fire Nest most of his life. She had been one of the wisest Kin he'd ever known. It had been her knowledge that had kept the Nest from falling to the circling sickness during his fledgling days. She'd known to instruct those who felt the twisting in their heads to find and consume the thorny branches and leaves of certain bushes that grew on nearby islands. Sunskin told him she had first supported his sire in his effort to drive off the Great Eel after it arrived. When that attack failed, Sunskin grieved the pointless losses and had then encouraged cooperation. Soon after, she and the others of breeding age were enthralled. Both Gatherer and its Nest survived and thrived. Many seasons after that she disappeared during a gathering at the preytooth nest.

If Sunskin had lived to see Fire Nest freed and the Kin truce with the preytooths, would she have willingly allowed another Gatherer to settle within her home? Or would she have once again risked failure and death to drive it off as his sire had? Two Hearts could not see a clear answer.

He greatly wished he could speak to Long Eye as well. Surely she would have some wisdom to offer her only surviving hatchling. He remembered the rumble of her voice, the warmth of her wing draped over his. He even wished he could call back his sire and hear his roar, see the spread of his wings, ask him a bellyful of questions.

His wings were tired. He'd flown more than he ever had since being grounded. It was wonderfully liberating to have his flight back and full control of his body restored. Yet it was also like flying with wings he couldn't feel. He was too light, as though a part of his body was missing. He often had to remind himself not to wait for cues from his flight mate on where to go.

The tranquil blackness of the night felt very lonely to him.

Thoughts of his wingless Kin helped warm his liver against the worries that roiled in his mind. But even this lacked its usual lift. He wanted to get back home, to touch ground at his new nest and curl up in their woodcave to sleep. This would not be possible, he knew. Featherstone had been deeply distressed at being left behind and would doubtless ask many questions of him when he returned. There were also going to be questions from his rider's sire.

They needed to know the truth. They deserved to know. The whole of the preytooth nest would need to know if they were to survive the coming changes. But to present such knowledge could spur the preytooths into rash, fearful action. Much like his doomed sire, they might once again fly against a treacherous storm. They would likely be convinced of a certain victory because of the death of the Great Eel.

Two Hearts knew that victory had been mostly luck. And luck couldn't lift one like wings or defend one like fangs. It was a fickle defense and a foolish offense.

So what could he do? Delay telling Featherstone until he knew what action he should take? Tell him right away and let the preytooths come to Fire Nest again? Now that he thought on it, he wasn't certain they _would_ come again. Not after their losses the last time.

How could they attack? Should they attack?

His thoughts were chasing each other and making him feel ill. He wanted even more to go to Featherstone and cover him with a wing while they slept, to have the little preytooth's scent in his nose. Even the presence of his flight mate's sire wouldn't have disturbed him.

Fluttering orange light crept up on his awareness as he neared the preytooth nest. Their fires were burning as usual, trying to appear brave amidst the darkness that smothered their sight. He opened his jaws wide and sent out a low, stuttering growl that signaled he was of the nest he was approaching.

"Soft tailwinds!" The greeting came from above and behind him and startled him somewhat with its closeness. He'd been so distracted by his thoughts he hadn't noticed the sound of wings nearby. For an instant he forgot to keep his hind claws firmly around the sticks that controlled his dead tail fin. The unexpected presence of Kin near him and the frightening feeling of his tail starting to lose its grip on the air brought a muted squeal from his throat. Having learned his lesson well, he tightly gripped the wooden pieces to correct his balance and gave the return call.

"Swift hunting!"

He should have expected to meet someone on his return to the nest. His nest mates would be anxious to know what their watcher had seen on his ranging after discovering thralls among them. The weight of being singularly responsible for his new nest's safety came back to him. He had two nests to worry about and a Gatherer that threatened both. How could he carry such a burden?

The brightscale that had joined him moved to a friendly distance and level with Two Hearts. The bright gurgling voice told him it was Flicktail. "I am glad to see you've returned. That was a long ranging."

He hadn't considered his prolonged absence might worry his nest mates and now wished he'd warned them of it. "There was much to learn. And much to see."

"What of the thralls? Why are they here? Where are they from?"

Even with his night sight, the darkness hid Flicktail's posture and expression from him. The rushing of air past them hid the other male's scent. But the sharp, screeching tones in the other's voice told him all. His nest mate was as worried as he was, perhaps more because he did not yet have the knowledge Two Hearts had gained.

The ghostwing gave a weary rumble. "Let us speak on the ground. It has been a long flight."

The preytooth watchers had left their high perches for the night and the fires he'd seen from far away were burning low. There was no one to see two Kin landing on the cliff tops near the nest. Two Hearts gave a contented growl as he eased his wings up against his body. He was Kin and he lived in the air but the nest was still where all came to rest. It was good to feel it beneath his paws.

Flicktail landed in front of him, facing him. He immediately pressed his narrow chest to the grassy ground and paid rapt attention to the nest's watcher. Two Hearts settled down as well and let the muscles of his chest, back and wings relax as he considered what he had to say. It took many heartbeats to find the words but Flicktail was patient.

"This you know: Kin form the nest and the nest forms its Kin. Each takes on the other's color and voice and temperament."

"This I know."

"Neither Kin nor nest can change without changing the other. They must fly in unison or fall."

Flicktail hesitated. He was disturbed by the watcher's words, he felt sure. "This I know."

For a moment, Two Hearts found it hard to speak. He groaned, a sound of exhaustion and fear. He saw no way to soften the blow. "Fire Nest has fallen. A new Gatherer has come. Those Kin who lived there with the Great Eel are once again trapped. And they probably feel comforted by its presence."

Flicktail gave a slight keening sound. "There was no struggle, no fight?"

"I saw no signs of such. The breeding Kin may have welcomed it even as they began dropping their clutches."

"Welcomed?" Flicktail was incredulous.

"Think on this; those Kin have never known a breeding season without a Gatherer. They had never lived in a nest without its presence until the last season of white. It is all they have known. To them..." The claws of his forepaw clenched into the turf. "They may feel that their old, familiar nest has been restored."

The brightscale keened again, with more distress. "But... to fly the skies in freedom... to hunt only for one's own needs. How could they want..."

"I don't know. But I scented it. It's there. And I don't know how to drive it away."

Flicktail stood, a shadow creature with only the barest hints of the lustrous colors of his scales showing in the dim light. "We must! We cannot abide-"

"I agree. It must be driven out or killed. I just... cannot see the path." Two Hearts laid his head down on his forelegs, tired and dejected.

His nest mate stared down at him. The sound of his wings flicking and fluttering in agitation told him the brightscale was upset. The weight of it all was pressing down on him again and he saw no way to soothe the other.

"You're the watcher."

Two Hearts closed his eyes, needing no reminder of his responsibilities to the nest. He heard Flicktail's spiny tail thump the ground. The spines lifted and rattled slightly before they lay back down, a sure sign of dismay.

"You're the First Hunter. You grounded the Great Eel and freed Fire Nest. You bonded the first preytooth and brought about the Kin truce."

He opened his eyes again and gave a raspy growl of irritation. "I am one Kin with two nests under my wings. I am tired and cannot think clearly."

Slowly, as though the weight that pressed down on the ghostwing had found him as well, the brightscale sank to the ground. Still Flicktail stared at him, turning his great head this way and that. He gave a soft chirrup that signified his full attention was on his black scaled nest mate. His eyes closed once more.

"The watcher must act."

"The watcher must sleep," he grumbled in response.

His heart slowed and he tried to still his mind. Once more he wished he was with his rider. He wanted sleep to lift the weight from him.

Two Hearts' breathing softened. He remembered belatedly that he hadn't cleansed the ground before he lay down. One night won't hurt, he decided. The thoughts that had plagued him circled around the edges of his mind. He tried to ignore them. He thought of Featherstone.

"This you know:" Flicktail chirred quietly. "The watcher is the nest. In all skies, against all winds, it rides under his wings. The watcher's life is the nest."

Long Eye's own words. How did Flicktail know them? He opened his eyes and stared at his nest mate in confusion.

"Two Hearts," the brightscale said gently, "you must call the nest. Your kin need to hear your words. They need to know what you've seen."

A spark flared in his liver, driving away sleep in spite of his weariness. Flicktail was right. The new Gatherer was larger than anything else and the threat it posed was more important than his desire to rest. The Kin in Fire Nest needed his help. So did the preytooths. Featherstone would, too.

There would be no rest for him this night. "Yes," he admitted. "Heart truth." He glanced over at the preytooth's woodcaves, darkened lumps under a starless sky. "Go and rouse the sleepers."

Flicktail stood once more, bouncing on his sturdy legs. "Yes!"

"Quietly," he admonished. "Wake no preytooths."

The brightscale ducked his head in acknowledgement and gave a quiet trill. "And the breeders on the far shore?"

They were more vulnerable than any others. "Yes. One of each pair. All must know of the danger."

With a satisfied squawk his nest mate lifted and made for the woodcaves. Each Kin who heard would move to spread the call. A nest as small as his would come together in a very short time. He closed his eyes to wait.

* * *

Two Hearts did not sleep as he waited for the nest to gather. His mind was once more agitated and would not stay still enough for rest. Being watcher of a Gatherer's nest had been too easy, he mused. Nearly all Kin went scouting for food and any other from a rival nest seldom returned after learning of the Gatherer's formidable presence. Now that he had to lead a nest against such a powerful enemy, he wondered if he would have as much fire in his liver as his sire had.

The doubts had been gnawing on him harshly when he heard the first beat of wings over his head. It was the bonded splitneck, Truthseeker. As sometimes happened with that special breed of Kin, the two minds within the single body were skilled at working together to dig out the twists and tangles of a Kin's problem. Truthseeker was often approached by Kin whose liver had overheated their minds and needed a clear answer to their difficulties.

As the wide body met the ground, Two Hearts stood and softly warbled a public welcome. It was returned with warmth and tinged with concern. Both heads leaned gracefully forward to touch noses with him. "We greet our First Hunter," said the female. The male added, "We are grateful for his safe return." In unison they said, "We hunger for his words." Finally the male asked, "Is the watcher in need of food? You have been gone long and we have just hunted."

Hunting had crossed his mind during his long flight. He would have liked to but he simply did not trust himself to make a successful catch in the wide waters while his skills with his dead tail were still uncertain. "I would be most grateful."

The male had made the offer but it was the female that curled her long neck almost into a circle as she worked to expel the offering. A large flathead with only part of the tail missing soon lay before them. Two Hearts thanked them and found the fish woke a fierce hunger in him. Not wanting to seem unappreciative he ignored his persistent hunger and instead asked, "How are your riders?"

"More disjointed than ever," the female answered. "Some new disturbance has upset them," observed the male.

"What disturbance?"

"We cannot fathom it," said the male. The female continued with, "The male hardly approaches us now."

The two separate heads turned to one another and spoke openly. Two Hearts wondered if they did so for the benefit of others or if they simply forgot to speak internally at certain moments.

"The male has been discontent for some time," offered the male.

"So with the female."

"They do not know how to resolve their discontent."

"Their minds are not strong," admitted the female.

"Heart truth. We have eaten things with stronger minds than theirs."

New wings approached. A bonded stonebelly who had taken the flight name of Yellowbreath came close, calling for acceptance of his landing. This time Truthseeker gave the answer. Once the ponderous body had touched ground and the wings had folded, the splitneck spoke quickly of the watcher's long flight and considerable hunger. Yellowbreath happily brought up a large portion of a squealer and offered it to the nest's watcher. Two Hearts accepted with much appreciation. Prey held within a stonebelly's innards tasted better than almost anything else he knew. It was seldom he was able to enjoy such a morsel.

Soon more Kin joined the calling. Offerings were made to the nest's watcher until Two Hearts no longer felt hollow. He looked up at the sky and judged less than half the night was gone. He still felt tired but the low chatter of the attending Kin kept him focused on his task. When the first breeder from the far shore landed there were many questions about how the clutches were faring. The news from those nesting pairs was good; the first nests built on the preytooth's island were secure and hunting was good, especially in the nearby waters. Sound eggs and healthy females in all the nests spread warmth to many livers. It was almost possible for Two Hearts to forget why they were coming together this night.

Flicktail returned with the last two he knew were coming. Two Hearts looked at the collection of Kin with dismay. So few, so young. "I do not scent Swimmer. Has anyone seen her?"

An unbonded stonebelly rumbled that he had seen her hunting the deeper waters several days before but had not crossed her path since. There was someone else missing, too.

"What of Crush Claw? Where is he?"

Truthseeker's female head told him the young firescale had left with his bond partner before the last storm and they had not returned. Two Hearts was uncertain what that might mean.

"Very well." He could wait no longer. There was immediate silence among the Kin. All eyes sought his. He looked around at the familiar faces of his new nest and realized he was in entirely new territory. He'd never called a nest before, never spoken on such important matters to assembled Kin. As new and unpleasant as the situation was, Two Hearts felt the moment called for something to mark the occasion.

He fluttered his wings a moment, trying to settle them comfortably. Finally he sat and raised his voice just enough that all could hear him.

"My nest mates, my Kin. Our nest has no name. We share it with the preytooths we once fought. The only watcher is young and has too few stories behind him to know the best path to take. The First Hunter..." His voice roughened with the mixed rumble of humor and regret. "First Hunter lives in the watcher's scales and so has the same weaknesses."

There were immediate growls of denial but he twitched his wings upward slightly to ask for quiet. He looked once more at the Kin that surrounded him. He had come to know them well. The smallest nest makes the tightest bonds, as the saying went. There had been many Kin in Fire Nest he'd never spoken to before the grounding of the Great Eel. Not so here. He knew them all. It was no surprise to him that he wanted to protect them all, more so than those he'd protected at Fire Nest. These were Kin and kin to him. There were no others in this gathering.

The feeling swept over him with such power he couldn't speak for a moment. This was the other half of his liver. Featherstone had taken up much of the room within him with his friendship and faithfulness. But these Kin were just as important. They'd stayed here, flying the unknown winds and risking the unseen storms. Flicktail had been right to speak Long Eye's words to him. These Kin lived under his wings. He needed their lift as much as he needed Featherstone's.

And with that thought came the rush of cold back into his liver. The Gatherer was out there, ready to do what all Gatherers did; it would bring all Kin under _its_ wings and hold them there without remorse or care. It would hold them, use them and even consume them if it felt the need. How could one immature ghostwing stop it?

"A Gatherer has come to Fire Nest. Its thralls have come here. If nothing is done, all will become as it was before, with the Great Eel."

The presence of thralls had been known or suspected by those who stayed within the preytooth's nest. They only grumbled quietly with the confirmation of their concerns. But the breeders who had left to build their nests before the troubles began squawked in fear and outrage. Doubtless they wanted their hatchlings to fly untroubled skies and were far more disturbed by the news. Two Hearts opened his wings to their full span and raised them high. Quiet fell over the assembled.

"I am the watcher." He cast a meaningful glance at Flicktail. The brightscale twitched his head in acknowledgment. "This is my nest. You are my Kin. We have known the taste of clean winds and the joy of hunting for ourselves. Our hatchlings must have these things."

Back again; the heaviness was on him once more. The Gatherer was such a powerful enemy, an unbearable weight to lift. How could he protect those who warmed his liver so much?

"This threat cannot be ignored. It must be grounded, or driven off. I do not yet know how this can be done. I can only promise I will do all I can to keep us safe."

An older brightscale spoke next. It was a male of considerable size and bearing who'd come in with the breeders.

"It was you who grounded the Great Eel." All eyes went to him and he looked around at the gathering. "It was Wind Rip who freed Fire Nest." He turned back to Two Hearts, gazing with one eye then the other. "You will do as you did before and we will support you in whatever way we can."

Tendrils of cold wormed their way into his liver. This one did not understand. "It is not as it was before. Much is the same but too much is different. This Gatherer can not be grounded as the Great Eel was."

The brightscale, a Kin much older than himself and certainly one who'd known a life of thralldom, stared at him directly for many heartbeats. His great lungs worked, pushing deep breaths in and out of his open mouth. He tasted the air, seeking to know what scents Two Hearts gave off. Without signaling what he thought of those scents, he asked, "Why not?"

It felt like a challenge and sparked his liver more than it should have. It took some effort to calm his mind and speak clearly. "The Great Eel was very old. It was far closer to its end than its beginning. It was mindless rage that drew it out of Fire Nest to attack the preytooths on its own. Its anger and age did more to kill it than Featherstone and I did." He addressed the rest of the gathering. "This one has recently left its egg nest. It will be young and strong, willful and smart. It will let Fire Nest defend it without showing itself, as Gatherers do."

"If it is young, let its inexperience be its grounding," the brightscale responded. "Any stories it hears from Kin in Fire Nest should only serve to worry it. Its nest has been broken before and can be again."

Why didn't this brightscale understand? "Its inexperience will not hinder it. It will simply let the Kin of the nest fight in its place. We would be fighting our former nest mates and dying long before we could reach it."

Only the wind answered after that. Its quiet moan filled the darkened spaces between the bodies of his nest mates. The scent of distress grew as each Kin began to understand what had chilled Two Hearts liver so badly.

After much silence had passed, he was about to ask their leave to rest. He still had much to do and he wanted very much to sleep. Before he could make a sound, a stonebelly spoke.

"No."

It was Yellowbreath. She was bonded to the large, round preytooth Featherstone had always called 'legs of fish.' Two Hearts had never understood the purpose of that name. No fish had legs; of that he was certain. Yellowbreath slowly moved closer to him and sat.

"The only way the new Gatherer can be grounded is the same way the old one was. Fire Nest can not be allowed to interfere." She looked around at her nest mates. "It is as the watcher says. There can be no success with the breeders protecting the Gatherer."

Two Hearts had much respect for Yellowbreath. She was only slightly older than he yet she spent as much time thinking as Truthseeker. Often her long periods of thought would be mistaken for sleep.

"How can we separate them? They are as many as scales on a Kin and we are but a few."

"It must be the same as before," she insisted. "The preytooths must drive them away."

Before he could speak, some of his nest mates objected most strenuously. He noticed they were all among the breeders who'd come from the far shore.

"Preytooths cannot be trusted!"

"They were there to attack the nest!"

"They were helpless before the Great Eel!"

Stonebelly wings were too small to signal their desires. Instead, she did as all stonebellies did and spat a tiny ball of molten stone into the ground. The crack of sound and the splash of liquid rock throwing up dirt and burnt grass brought the assembled Kin to order.

"Does no one here remember as I do?" Her ponderous gaze swept over her nest mates, including Two Hearts. "The Great Eel was grounded because it was alone. Its nest had abandoned it. Those Kin fled the preytooth attack. Without the preytooths, we would still be thralls in its grip." She turned once more to him. "The preytooths didn't fall to the Great Eel's deception during their attack. They are either unaffected by its scent or are not so easily enthralled. They must drive off the nest. Then you and your flight mate can deal with the new Gatherer."

Two Hearts was certainly pleased to realize her observation about the preytooths was correct. Never once during that brief, terrible fight had they shown any signs of succumbing to the Gatherer's trickery. But he knew the answer would not be so simple. He had spent the whole of the previous day gnawing on this very problem and he knew the fatal weakness of such an attack. "Yellowbreath, I'm sorry but I must question your hunt. The preytooths did not intend to drive off the nest when they attacked. They were there to ground us all. It was only the shock of having the nest broken with their rock throwers and seeing them at Fire Nest for the first time that frightened them away. If the attack had been any different, the Kin of Fire Nest would have turned every preytooth on that beach into a pile of charred bones."

"Have them use the rock throwers again. What worked before-"

"No, Yellowbreath, think of what has happened." He looked around at the assembled Kin listening to their words. "Most Kin who returned to Fire Nest have come to know this nest. They have stood among the preytooths, eaten their fish and perched on their woodcaves. There would be no ice in their livers under such a repeated attack. The preytooths would only be seen as a threat to Fire Nest and to the Gatherer. There would be no fear to drive them away."

"Preytooths are clever creatures," Yellowbreath said patiently. "They must find a new way to frighten off the breeders. There is no other way, as you say. If they remain, we cannot succeed."

Now Two Hearts felt an impatience that was not normal for him. All these thoughts were dried fish entrails to him; he had scented them and dismissed them as unworthy of attention. Still, he needed to explain to his nest. It was as important for them to understand as it would be for the preytooths.

"You have been part of this nest as long as I have. You've seen what's happened here since the season turned. The preytooth's stomachs have soured to Kin." He lifted his eyes toward the woodcaves in the distance. "I don't know that they will do as Kin ask."

Yellowbreath stared at him, obviously in deep thought. She breathed heavily and shifted her hindquarters slightly. Her wide, blunt tongue slipped out to wash the tip of her snout.

"You must speak to your flight mate. He must be our voice."

This caused a stir among some of the Kin gathered. A different stonebelly spoke up, asking, "You can speak to your bond partner?"

Two Hearts couldn't quite keep the impatience from his voice as he rumbled, "He is my flight mate. Yes, I can speak to him though it is not always easy or clear."

The large brightscale seemed unconvinced. "Preytooths can truly speak? They have deeper thoughts in those little round heads?"

"Yes, they are a kin." It was easier to subdue his irritation with the elder Kin. It was only natural to afford respect to those who had survived so long. "Ask the ones who have bonded with one."

Yellowbreath spoke up again. "I do not know about deeper thoughts, but my bond partner certainly has language. All the preytooths do. This I learned in their stone pit as I fought them. Since the Kin truce, I have learned many more of their words." She paused as a few other Kin who had taken riders to the skies confirmed her claim. Turning back to him, she continued. "Your rider, he is the one we need. He can be our voice. He can speak to the preytooths and to Kin in the fight to come."

Panic seized Two Hearts by the throat and he stood, partially extending his wings. "No! I will not have him near the Gatherer! I will not risk it!" Heat and cold flashed through his liver at the same time, greatly disturbing him.

Yellowbreath studied him for a bellyful of heartbeats. No one else spoke, having heard the power of the watcher's statement. A ghostwing's will was not to be taken lightly. She growled wordlessly once, then took a step toward him. "You speak for him? You are his voice?"

Two Hearts ignored the question. "He has already given enough for us."

She gave an inquisitive grunt and sat down again. "He has given no more than you have." She looked around at the Kin that surrounded them and then back to him. "Will he not protect his nest? Is he not watcher for the preytooths?"

He knew Featherstone's sire filled that role. "That is not his place."

"Where is his place?"

Two Hearts spoke without thought. "With me."

Once more she stared at him, silent in her thought. On this point he would not move. It had been too close and he would not risk it again.

Now he heard the deep breaths of all Kin around him. He was distressed at the thought of bringing his flight mate near the Gatherer and all those near him could scent it. He felt certain it did not warm their livers at all to sense such fear in their watcher.

Yellowbreath stood once more and moved close. She tipped her large head down slightly to gaze directly into his eyes. After a moment she leaned forward and touched noses with him. "You call him your flight mate. You changed your flight name to tell all Kin his place in your mind. Yet you place him outside your nest?"

He had been distressed before. Now he felt winter slowly closing its teeth on his innards.

"Is he prey to be kept for your own nourishment?"

His wings drooped. She knew. She scented his fear, his failing and declared it unworthy. And in doing so she placed the value of Featherstone's life directly against his responsibility to his new nest. The presence of the Gatherer in Fire Nest would endanger both nests and all who lived within. And Yellowbreath had made it clear how wrong it was to put his flight mate's welfare above any others.

Two Hearts hadn't thought he could hate Gatherers more than he already did. He now knew he was wrong.

"He is all to me," he said quietly. "I... I have lost my breed, my sire, my dam. Featherstone took my flight. He held my life in his claws. But then he gave it all back to me." He lowered his wide head, humbled to explain his weakness to the nest. "All I have now comes from him. I fear for him, greatly. I cannot lose him." He raised his head again, some of his will threading heat into his liver. "I _must_ not lose him!"

Yellowbreath crooned compassionately to him, sharing her understanding of his feelings with him and all the Kin present. "I hear the warning of the watcher, I see the love of the First Hunter for those he protects. I think perhaps this preytooth is actually of your breed. He has inspired a Kin's love in you." She nosed him again, wanting to make her support clear. "But will the Gatherer respect your desire to protect him? Will it leave this nest in peace at your request?" Her eyes would not leave his. "Or will it threaten all the Kin and all the preytooths here?"

It was not a question to answer. It was a question to teach. Two Hearts was silent, unable to respond in any case.

"Will you not let your flight mate help protect those who care so much for him?"

In his mind he pictured Featherstone charging the Gatherer with a piece of sharp metal, his dead leg hampering his movement. Such an encounter could only end with the preytooth's death.

The stonebelly glanced at the end of Two Hearts' tail. "You say he took your flight and gave it back to you? I say he is a preytooth with a powerful mind. He thinks in ways no Kin ever has. Let him use that strength against the Gatherer."

That sounded like a dubious strength to him when pitted against the size and power of the largest Kin known. But he saw the wisdom in Yellowbreath's words. He would have to speak to Featherstone about it. Perhaps his flight mate could, indeed, help find a way to ground this new threat.

Sleep found him before he could look for his flight mate. The Kin had left, the breeders taking the news of the Gatherer to their mates who had remained on the nests. Sun flight was still far off and Two Hearts saw no reason to wake Featherstone or his sire. In spite of all that was said, he still felt he was no closer to an answer. His thoughts foundered and sank. Finally he was pulled down into the blissful peace of sleep.

* * *

He woke, still alone atop the cliffs. The sun was well into its journey across the sky and the clouds were high and thin. The ground around him was warming nicely and he could tell there would be many good lifting currents in the air around him. It would be a perfect day for a long, lazy flight. He wanted to find Featherstone and convince him to-

He curled his head around and looked at the thin strands of dried bleater skin that lay near his hind legs. He remembered. He could fly alone now, if he so chose.

But why? He missed his small wingless Kin and he knew Featherstone missed him. Even a long morning of idle sailing on the cool, moist winds didn't call him as strongly as being back with his flight mate.

Thoughts of his rider brought more memories. There were things he needed to discuss with Featherstone, things he needed to tell him. Things that were likely to distress him as much as leaving him had. He needed to speak to sire as well.

So he had the choice of a difficult conversation with Featherstone and sire or letting the wind carry him far away from anything troubling.

Two Hearts suddenly felt very heavy.

He rose to his feet, glancing at the collection of woodcaves in the distance. He spent a moment working his hind paws to get his sticks grasped correctly before he leapt up. His destination was downhill and not very far. He made do with a gentle glide toward Featherstone's woodcave, barely working his wings at all. When he was near, he let go of his sticks and cupped his wings to stall and land. He came down on all fours, flexing his legs and sliding to a stop. It was a simple trick he'd learned as a fledgling. He felt a momentary thrill of pleasure. He hadn't done his slide-stop since his fledgling days. It was _good_ to be in control of his own flight again.

That stopped him. It _was_ good, but it was Featherstone's doing. His flight mate had done so much for him. Since that moment they'd first met eyes, the little preytooth had seldom stopped trying to make things better for Two Hearts. And now he was about to drag his small friend into a fight that Kin hadn't been able to win on their own in countless generations. He was sure Featherstone would want to fight. That scared him almost as much as the presence of the Gatherer did.

It had to be done. Pushing the doubts from his mind, he stepped to the moving portion of the woodcave and nudged it with his nose. As it twisted into the inside space, he followed it in. Immediately the smells of his new home roused his feelings of protectiveness. He could smell the fire, the old food and the hot, oily scent of a preytooth's lair. A form was hunched over beyond the table at one end of the space. He took a step forward, calling to his flight mate. The form rose up, straightened.

This was not what he had wanted.

Two Hearts and sire surprised each other. He looked around and saw no sign of his flight mate in the lower part of the woodcave. Featherstone might be in the upper part, unseen. Before he could work his way up the cleverly cut log to see for himself, sire called loudly, "Kin!"

Preytooths may have had tiny noses and lived their lives scent-blind to the world around them but they told just as much about themselves through their scent as any Kin. Sire was stirring the air with anger, confusion and the ever-present touch of fear. The large preytooth stood and came around the table. The scents coming from him swept over Two Hearts like the crackling smoke from a territorial firescale's body. "Where have you been?"

He needed to speak to sire, but it would be easier with Featherstone to help. He raised his head and pointedly looked at the upper part of the woodcave.

"Lung Spasm is not here. He is looking for you."

Two Hearts groaned softly. This was going to be hard. He sat and tightly furled his wings, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

"Where have you been?"

"Fly."

Sire gave a puzzled grunt. It took Two Hearts a moment to realize the big preytooth had none of the words Featherstone had learned. He moved to the place of ashes and tamped a flat spot for marking. He quickly made the dirt sign for flying.

A fluttering wave of a large foreclaw was matched with, "Not understand."

Two Hearts gave a frustrated huff and thought a moment. Then he looked at sire and lifted his wings a little. He moved them up and down just enough to mimic the effort of flying. Even catching this idea did not appease sire.

"Fly where?"

That was a harder question to answer so he just twitched his head in the direction of Fire Nest. This also did not seem to please sire but he said nothing for many heartbeats.

"You answer questions?"

He supposed that was as good a start as any. He said, "Yes," then nodded. Another idea came to him then. He slowly lifted his foreleg and extended his paw, as he had before their last 'talk.' He'd seen preytooths use the gesture with each other and hoped it would be taken the same way they used it. Sire looked down at the offered paw, his mouth curling unhappily. Despite what his mouth did, his scent lost much of its anger. A moment later, mouth flattening, sire put his foreclaw against his paw and gripped it. He grasped the foreclaw gently in return.

Sire sat on a chair, facing Two Hearts. He looked steadily into his eyes as his scent gradually calmed. A mouthful of heartbeats later he asked, "No Teeth, are you first of Kin?"

If he hadn't spent so many nights perched atop their woodcaves, listening to them speak and learning their words, he might not have understood the question. He knew preytooths got much lift from being the individual others followed. To lead other preytooths was often desirable among them. Asking if he was 'first of Kin' meant sire thought he held such a position within the nest.

Kin, however, did not treat each other as leaders and followers. The sky was too large to bother following another Kin if it went someplace objectionable. He supposed some of the roles Kin filled among a nest, such as a watcher or a First Hunter, might feel the same as what sire referred to. But 'first of Kin' sounded very different from watcher or First Hunter. Two Hearts wasn't sure how to answer, so he tried to be as truthful as he could. He shook his head up and down for 'yes', then side to side for 'no.'

Another wave of anger hit his nose. Sensing sire wanted more, he wrote in dirt sign, [most big of small group] It was as close as he could get. And still it didn't work.

"Not understand!"

A soft hiss spilled from his jaws. This was like his first talk with Featherstone on the sea stack, only grumpier.

He looked at his dirt signs, wondering what he could change to make them clearer. That was when he saw what he'd been doing with Featherstone without recognizing it.

Two Hearts had been chewing down his signs from difficult-to-draw pictures to simple lines that meant the same thing. It saved time and made learning new signs quicker. Sire did not know any of these new signs. Unless Featherstone had taught them to him, he would not have seen the first, large signs he'd made in the beginning. He would have to start with those once more.

Pressing the ashes flat once again, he drew a line with a large rise in the middle of it. Around it he drew various Kin in flight. He tapped the drawing, said, "Home," and tapped the woodcave's floor.

"Nest?" The sound preytooths made for their nest's name was short and did not translate to anything that made sense to Two Hearts. What they called their nest was of little interest. It was 'nest' and that was all it needed to be for them. He nodded to sire.

Then he moved a little way over and drew Fire Nest. He did his best to make it look like it was surrounded by fog and swarming with Kin. It took some time to make the drawing but sire didn't seem to mind. Indeed, the older preytooth watched with sharp attention. He pointed to Fire Nest and called it by the preytooth word for it. Two Hearts nodded again. Then he pointed his metal drawing stick at himself and tapped the drawing of the preytooth nest. "Yes," he said, nodding. He tapped Fire Nest. "No," he growled while shaking his head.

"You are first of Kin here only?"

"Yes." He nodded once more. It was still not wholly accurate, but it would do.

Sire thought on that, studying the drawings in the gray dust. At first he seemed to become calm. Then he leaned forward and anger rose up from him once more. "Why Kin take food?"

Two Hearts was baffled. How did sire expect Kin to live if they didn't hunt? His confusion agitated sire.

"Kin take preytooth food! They take bleaters, they take squealers! Will they fight preytooths next?"

Had any watcher had so difficult a nest to protect? Two Hearts was unhappy with himself for not considering the effect thralls would have on the preytooths. If his nest knew of the danger those scavenging Kin posed, surely the preytooths who had been their victims for so long would see and understand it as well. He had been so concerned about the Kin under his wings that he had forgotten Featherstone's kin.

But how much did they understand? Sire was asking why preytooth food was being taken. Did he suspect a Gatherer was responsible? Did he know anything about Gatherers and how they enthralled a nest?

Or, as the rising anger that filled the air seemed to say, did sire think all Kin were one and the same? Did he think that all Kin were becoming his enemies once again?

This was a far more dangerous situation than he'd thought. If preytooths saw all Kin as enemies it would mean the death of the Kin truce. It would make survival for both sides far more difficult and perhaps once again impossible.

It was plain to Two Hearts that he must explain the nature of Gatherers and the presence of the new one at Fire Nest. To do so, however, might push the preytooths toward a fight they would likely lose. The balance was so fine. It was like flying with cracked wing bones over water. Effort to reach safety might destroy what kept a Kin aloft while passive gliding might end in the merciless waters of the endless sea.

How could he explain?

Two Hearts struggled to think of a way to use his pictures to show sire that the Kin in his nest could be trusted while others from Fire Nest were both a danger and victims. He didn't want to thrust the Gatherer into sire's mind when there was a serious risk of a misunderstanding between Kin and preytooths. Sire needed an answer and he didn't know what to give.

The large preytooth was growing restless with Two Heart's hesitation. The Gatherer was the only thing sire might understand yet its exposure might end up killing many preytooths needlessly. He gripped his drawing stick tightly, hating the decision he was being forced into by an enemy far away.

He could see no other path. He crooned miserably, knowing he might very well be starting the destruction of the preytooth nest.

He moved back to the ashes and drew the answer to sire's question. Next to the picture he'd drawn of Fire Nest, he traced out a large, powerful body, massive wings, and huge jaws. He made it far larger than the other small Kin near it. And on its head, he tapped the spike six times to create the most distinctive feature of a Gatherer other than its size. Finished, he looked over at sire, a warbling moan telling of his unhappiness.

Sire stood, staring hard at the new lines.

"No, not another." He pointed with his foreclaw. "There can't be another, not like..."

Two Hearts lowered his head and nodded.

Fear grew large in the enclosed space. Sire stank of it. He sank back to his chair. "Not again, I can't..."

Two Hearts knew how he felt.

For sire, however, the desire to protect his nest and his kin quickly resurfaced. The eyes narrowed and the mouth turned down. The hot scent of anger burst forth and burned away the fear. He said something quiet, threatening. His eyes locked on the drawing, knowing now where to direct his liver's fire.

Sire pointed once more toward the Gatherer in the dust. "This where Kin go? From nest to there?"

So the preytooths had noticed their absence. At least this question had an easy answer. Two Hearts nodded.

"That Kin make others take preytooth food?"

Another easy answer, another nod.

Sire's considered this. Then his eyes narrowed and the anger began to build yet again. What had bitten him this time?

"Can Kin-" He said a word that Two Hearts didn't have. He gave a quiet, puzzled grunt. Sire's mouth curled down again and he repeated his question. Then he changed the words. "Not truth! Can Kin speak not truth?"

It felt as if every breath of lift was gone from his wings and he was falling with no hope of recovery. Why would sire ask such a question? Did he think he was word twisting all of this?

But wait! A Gatherer was a Kin that thrived on deception. Was that what sire meant? He pointed toward the six-eyed drawing and nodded energetically.

Sire glanced at the drawing but was not satisfied. "You? You can speak not truth?"

Where was this coming from? What possible reason could he have to think Two Hearts was trying to deceive him about something so important? He whined, feeling he was without any lift whatsoever.

Sire leaned forward in his chair again. This time fear and anger filled the room. The big preytooth felt this was very important. "No Teeth, can you speak not truth?"

If it was that important to Featherstone's sire, Two Hearts would answer. He nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering.

Sire slowly straightened in his chair. The fear and anger bled off to almost nothing. He stared, his eyes shifting to the Gatherer drawing only briefly. He pointed. "This is truth?"

Two Hearts nodded with more energy, not daring to look away.

Leaning back again, sire watched him silently for many heartbeats.

"How can I trust you?"

Two Hearts' lift was gone. He had no words, no dirt signs, no pictures that could show sire the fire in his liver. He was grounded by his own ignorance and the long-told stories of hatred and death between Kin and preytooths. The best he could hope for now was that the preytooths would not go hunting the new Gatherer. Perhaps he and his nest mates could find a way to deal with the threat on their own.

If only Featherstone had been there.

Featherstone!

Suddenly he remembered the hole in the ground, his wounded tail and the start of his strange new path. He remembered the gesture Featherstone had made, stretching out his foreclaw while turning his eyes away. Every moment of his new life since had been because of that gesture.

But it had been more than the gesture.

It had been the young preytooth's scent. In that place, on that most special day he'd taken in the shocking and confusing scent of a preytooth that feared yet trusted. The fear was not the fear of death, the fear of attack. That scent was almost identical in nearly every living thing he knew; a pulsing, tangy burst that often bloomed as forcefully as blood from a wound.

The little preytooth that brought him a roundback had scented of a softer fear, the fear of failure. It was the fear of setting one's own safety aside and letting another make a decision that could wound or kill. It was the scent of acceptance, of trust. For Two Hearts, at that moment, he could make no other choice than to accept.

The preytooth before him was Featherstone's sire. Surely his flight mate took some of his views from the teachings of this large person.

He took one slow step toward sire. The large preytooth leaned back slightly. He widened his nostrils and took in a deep, gusting breath, tasting the state of sire's liver.

There was a low anger, mild confusion and the taint of fear. Each waxed and waned moment by moment. But there was no killing rage, no bloodlust.

Two Hearts knew then it was time for him to do as Featherstone had done. He must trust the preytooth without knowing with absolute certainty it was the best path.

There was another scent mixed with the others, one he had finally gotten used to but never liked: sharp metal. He gazed down at sire's hip, where the small piece of dangerous metal lay hidden. Slowly and with great care he lifted his drawing spike in his paw and tapped the place where the sharp metal was. He looked back up to sire.

The preytooth scented of confusion; wariness marked his face. Two Hearts nodded and tapped the sharp metal again.

With equal care, sire pulled the sharp metal out from hiding. Two Hearts stared at it a moment, hoping he had chosen the right path. He lifted his spike and gently tapped the foreclaw that did not hold the sharp metal. The foreclaw twitched, but otherwise remained where it was. Then he put his spike on the floor and held out his other paw toward the sharp metal, hot and cold racing through his liver.

Heartbeats passed. Sire watched him closely. A strange swirl of conflicting scents enveloped them both. Violence did not seem forthcoming but neither did acceptance. Perhaps sire did not understand. Snow circled his liver. He held as still as he could, waiting and hoping.

Finally sire reciprocated, touching the flat part of his sharp metal against the dark scales of his paw. Two Hearts nodded, feeling the wind start to fill his wings once more. He slowly, carefully extended his spike toward sire's chest and very lightly touched it. Then he raised his own chest up slightly, giving the invitation. He held his wings completely motionless, forced his tail to the floor. Nothing must distract them.

Several heartbeats passed before he felt the press of metal against his chest. His path remained true; he took the last step. He raised his spike and ever so gently touched sire's throat. Sire's eyes widened and he saw muscles in the large body go rigid but the preytooth did not move. He lowered the spike and lifted his head, exposing his own throat. He closed his eyes.

_Please understand_.

Heartbeat after heartbeat passed, each hurrying the next. He scented no bloodlust; sire knew how close he and Featherstone flew. This was the right path. It had to be. It was the only one he could see.

The touch was there and gone. A spike of heat flashed through his liver, but he kept it contained. He lowered his head and gazed at sire. There was still confusion in his scent but the anger was much subdued. So was the fear. He nodded. They had established their trust.

Two Hearts knew this was better but still dangerous. He warbled softly, drawing sire's attention. He still didn't know how it would happen, but he knew Yellowbreath's claim that the preytooths must be involved was likely correct. He needed to get this last, critical idea across and he believed he knew how. He turned his own gaze to the Gatherer in the gray dust. He exposed his teeth and growled fiercely at it. Then he turned back to sire.

His drawing spike was made for dirt signs. It was nothing like sire's sharp metal. But it would do for the moment. He held up his spike, then tapped the sharp metal in sire's foreclaw. He turned back again to the drawing. It was not an attack any Kin would understand but he'd seen preytooths use sharp metal enough that he knew how it worked.

With an enraged shriek, he turned his spike's rounded end down and plunged it into the soft ash of the Gatherer's body. He released it and stepped back, looking back to sire meaningfully.

Sire understood. He raised himself up, glanced at the drawing and threw his sharp metal with terrible speed. There was a muffled ringing as the sharp metal and the spike contacted briefly.

Two Hearts looked at the twice impaled Gatherer and grunted his satisfaction. He looked up at sire. Sire nodded as well. His liver was bursting with sparks. His new nest had a chance.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2013

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN: **I apologize for how long this took. I had a much harder time than usual getting started on it.


	28. Changing Aspects

Broken

Chapter 28: Changing aspects

There was a sick feeling lodged in the back of Hiccup's throat. It had been there since he rose to the morning of the second day without Toothless.

Much of the morning before had been spent with Astrid and Folkvardr, riding around the island and looking for the Night Fury. He wasn't surprised that they couldn't find him. Toothless had full control of his tail fin now and could go as far as he wanted. When it became obvious that they wouldn't be able to locate him around Berk, Astrid mentioned that she had chores she had put off that morning. Hiccup had also been expected in the forge. She'd suggested he take to his work as a way to pass the day quickly while he waited for Toothless' return.

By noon they'd separated and he'd found Gobber in the smithy working on a handle for a stewpot. The master smith had greeted him cheerfully enough but also suggested that their work load would be reduced dramatically if Hiccup were to actually spend time at the forge. The young man had given him a distracted nod and set himself to straightening and sharpening a pair of sheep shears.

That entire afternoon had been a struggle. The work could only distract him so much. Then he would remember watching Toothless disappear into the night, becoming a silent shadow lost in the darkness. Three questions would then pose themselves again and again: why did he leave, where did he go, why wouldn't he take me?

The evening hadn't gone any better. His father said little to him at the table. Hiccup offered no conversation, his mind caught up in an endless cycle of those three questions. Heading to bed early, he could only hope sleep would take him and that his best friend would be there to greet him in the morning.

If he slept it wasn't for long and he wasn't aware of it. Mostly he had stared at the ceiling and listened for any sound that might tell of a dragon approaching the house. Astrid's words would come back to him, berating him for lacking trust in his friend. Hard after would come his father's questions and accusations. These were usually followed by the pointed teeth of his own fears gnawing at his belly.

Why did he leave, where did he go, why wouldn't he take me?

Hiccup rose before his father for the second morning in a row. He slipped out into the pre-dawn darkness despite knowing that if Toothless was not in or near the house it was unlikely he would find him out among the rest of Berk. Wandering the village during the day took concentration; he had to carefully watch the placement of his iron foot to prevent tripping or stumbling. Roaming the worn footpaths between houses in the dark was even more hazardous. Staying in the house and waiting would have been unbearable, though. He'd done all the waiting he could. Even if all he did was stagger around uselessly it was better than staying abed and being hounded by the three questions.

Hiccup ended up in the gathering circle at the center of the village. No one else was stirring that he could see. He stopped next to one of the central torch pillars. Looking up he could just make out the framework of the large brazier that had once held dry wood to light the sky during night-time dragon attacks. After the battle, the torches had been generously filled with fish as a peace offering to their old enemies. Many dragons had perched on them like enormous birds and happily eaten their fill.

No one filled them any more. Generosity had waned and attitudes had reverted to mistrust and suspicion. And if they had been filled with fish, would any dragons but the few that remained eat from them? He thought it very unlikely.

With the moon nearly hidden, the only light came from the stars. Hiccup stared up, one hand on the massive wooden pole to keep his balance as he tilted his head back and filled his gaze with starlight. He remembered using those stars to track the barely detectable movement of a black dragon across the night sky. Only the faint twinkling of those stars told of the Night Fury's passing above him.

He would have given anything to see them twinkle now.

"I trust you," he whispered to the empty sky. "I know you'll come back." It helped, a little. In spite of not being able to speak directly like a Norseman, Hiccup fully believed his friend had no desire to deceive him or mislead his father.

He'd wondered about this a few months ago. Trust was a conditional aspect of his life before Toothless. Those young people who'd become his class mates had seldom had his best interests at heart and therefore could only be marginally trusted. Adults were often looking for ways to mitigate whatever strange effects Hiccup might have had on their day so he rarely had reason to explicitly trust them, either. Even his father was usually trying to steer him away from whatever self-appointed objective he might have had. Aside from the occasional rough prank, no one sought to do Hiccup real harm. But neither did they inspire any real trust.

Toothless was the first to earn his full trust, long before he'd come to realize the dragon was a person in his own right. Hiccup had always believed that animals were incapable of spiteful deception. They could hide, lure unwary prey and use other simple 'tricks' to increase their odds of survival. But they weren't able to distort the truth simply to hurt him or cause him embarrassment.

Once he'd been reasonably sure that the Night Fury no longer saw him as a target of attack, Hiccup had been willing to extend his own trust as far as he physically could: specifically, to the end of his arm. His willingness to risk himself earned him a friend with whom he could trust his very life.

Learning Toothless was a person, as intelligent and complex as Hiccup was, put a strange burden on his ability to trust. It didn't consciously manifest itself until his father posed his single, cutting question: can dragons lie?

Hiccup had strongly resisted any such notion. He and Toothless had absolutely no reason to deceive one another. To even ask the question was insulting. But when the Fury asked to be fitted with his rig in the dead of night after a small raid and then refused to let Hiccup come with him...

Why did he leave, where did he go, why wouldn't he take me?

It wasn't betrayal, it wasn't deception and it wasn't permanent. Time would allow the answers to come out. Hiccup would have to be patient and lean on his trust. Toothless would return and the truth would follow him.

But he would have given almost anything to see those stars twinkle.

Eventually the stars began to fade as dawn tried once again to take Berk unaware. Hiccup slowly made his way to Gobber's smithy, certain the man would be pleased to see him at work so early. While the master blacksmith was surprised to see him stoking the forge when he arrived, he expressed doubts in his apprentice's ability to focus with the Night Fury still absent. These doubts were proven later that morning when the young man suddenly stopped in the middle of his work and stared blankly at the floor. When Gobber asked him what was wrong, he answered with quiet dread, "I just realized I forgot to check the control lines when I rigged him. What if he hasn't come back because he fell?"

Hiccup was fighting down the cold, worming fear that he may have accidentally caused Toothless harm but he still noticed Gobber's exasperated expression as he scrubbed at his jowly face with his good hand.

"I'm serious! What if I just got him kill-"

"I know!" Gobber interrupted. He was obviously somewhat sympathetic to Hiccup's concern. It was also plain he was annoyed with his inability to simply put his fears behind him and get on with the daily work. "Look lad, how many times did Stoick tell ye he would be gone for a week and not come back for two or three?"

"But he wasn't sailing on a ship I designed and built!"

The burly smith hesitated. "Alright, I'll grant ye that. But the point I'm making is that most any journey is a chancy thing. Just because yer dragon hasn't come back yet doesn't mean he's in trouble."

All Gobber's reassurance did was bring his thoughts back around to the three questions. "But I don't know why he even had to leave! Why wouldn't he..."

'Trust him,' said Astrid's voice. 'Can he lie,' asked his father's. His hand clenched around his hammer until he felt it being pulled forcibly out of his grip. Gobber laid it on the anvil and pointed to the door.

"Go on. Go look for him."

Hiccup closed his eyes in misery. "There's no point. He can fly alone now. He could be anywhere."

Gobber shrugged. "So borrow someone else's dragon. I'd put you on George but the bony lummox seems to have nipped off with the rest. I think you're a mite too big for Phil to carry."

That got through the turmoil of Hiccup's thoughts.

"George is gone?"

His mustache wobbled slightly as he nodded. "Couple of days now." He stared at Hiccup meaningfully.

"Gobber, I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't know."

The master smith stumped back to his work, putting the piece he'd been shaping back among the coals and pumping the bellows. "Eh, I'll have to wait until he comes back to try out my new forge but that's no problem. He'll be back when he's ready."

Hiccup was truly torn now. The only adult he'd ever counted as a real friend was in the same position as him and was refusing to let his concerns overwhelm him. Gobber saw his Boneknapper as a free being capable of taking care of himself and wouldn't let his absence hinder him.

But Gobber didn't know what Hiccup knew. George was a person, doubtless making decisions about where he spent his time the same way any Viking would. Suddenly he ached to tell the smith about the dragon's true nature. If there was anyone he hadn't yet told who might accept Hiccup's word on it, it was Gobber. Or maybe Fishlegs.

Something stopped him, though. Telling Gobber wasn't enough. The entire village needed to know. It couldn't... _shouldn't_ remain a secret for much longer. But telling the village about dragons being equal to Vikings could easily go the wrong way; even Hiccup could see that.

Worse, the raid that had just happened put a bad light on the dragons. How could he justify his statements with such a disturbing event so fresh in everyone's mind? And how did the exodus of local dragons fit into the picture?

Two ideas came to Hiccup at the same time. He needed to talk to his father about the best way to reveal the truth about dragons to the rest of the village. And he suddenly realized he needed to talk to a dragon from outside Berk. He would have to ask Toothless to interpret for him, of course.

When he came back.

Hiccup needed to act. He made his plans on the fly and was determined to set them in motion. He looked up at Gobber, who had been watching him intently.

"Gobber, I need to go-"

"I know." His tong attachment waved at the door. "I've seen that look before."

Hiccup smiled. "Thanks." He moved quickly toward his house, wishing for an instant he could manage a run with his false leg.

His mind was going in several directions at once and none of them dwelt on his missing dragon. There were other things he could do that would help both the dragons and his village cope with one another. He wished he had thought to ask Toothless to help him talk to other dragons besides Folkvardr sooner. He might have learned the cause of the dragon's disappearance before it happened and saved himself and others the worry.

Without Toothless around to help with that, Hiccup decided he would take on the task of revealing the dragon's secret to Berk. He would need his father's help. And the chief's permission, he knew. He wasn't sure which would be harder to obtain.

Approaching the door to his house, he called out, "Dad?" He pushed his way inside to witness a heart-stopping tableau.

Toothless was there, his back to the door and his tail curled around his hindquarters. For an instant relief pulled the corners of his mouth upward and he hitched a breath to call out his friend's name.

Then a large form rose up just beyond Toothless. It was his father, Stoick the Vast, chief of the village of Berk and renowned dragon killer. He had his dagger in his hand, held low as though he had picked it up off the floor. His mind barely registered the blade and part of the exposed handle being covered in ash. Stoick was bringing the blade up and Toothless was right there, easily within striking distance.

Hiccup's gut clenched hard and he thrust out his hands, beseeching. His voice cracked out in a terrified shriek, "DAD, NO!"

The world froze. Toothless had turned his head and his father raised his gaze. Two sets of wide eyes regarded him with surprise.

When nothing happened for several seconds, Hiccup's brain began pulling apart the scene before him. There was something very wrong with what he saw.

Toothless didn't appear threatened. His father didn't look aggressive. The dagger, despite being held closer to his dragon than was acceptable, was actually being held wrong for a strike.

_What was going on here?_

Every question Hiccup had about what he was seeing tried to get past his lips at the same moment. They collided, tangled and ended up dribbling out as a breathless, "Whaaa..."

Toothless moved first. He turned back toward his father, his eyes flicking over the incorrectly held dagger, then up to Stoick's face. The Fury turned once more toward Hiccup, his pupils wide and his ears up. He then uttered a happy-sounding warbling growl and stepped to him, pushing the crown of his large, flat head directly into Hiccup's stomach.

Hiccup's arms automatically encircled the dragon's head, partly in protection and partly in a relieved embrace. But his eyes were still firmly fixed on the dusty blade. When Stoick cleared his throat and finished standing, his gaze lifted to a surprisingly embarrassed expression on the man's face. The dagger was tapped twice against the nearby table, shedding dusty ash, then wiped against a sleeve before being sheathed.

Loki was on the loose. Had to be.

His father made a small gesture toward the large black dragon nuzzling his stomach and said unnecessarily, "He came in while you were gone."

Hiccup looked down at said dragon just as the blunt muzzle came up. The tip of Toothless' snout smacked against the point of his chin and his teeth clacked with the impact. He grunted, unhurt but still confused. A warm, wide tongue slid from the opening of his tunic to the end of his nose, causing him to grunt again in agitation. His feelings for Toothless didn't make getting his lips covered in dragon saliva any more palatable.

As he looked down into the large green eyes that sought his, he heard his father sit on the bench before the table. Toothless gave him another long lick and he had to turn his head away to avoid being slobbered on. His ear and the side of his head got the affectionate treatment instead of his nose and mouth. His lips quirked upward despite himself.

"Easy, Toothless," he managed to say. The licking stopped but the top of the dragon's head resumed pressing into his chest and abdomen. A rough, rumbling purr sent vibrations through his ribs all the way into his spine. He felt his faint smile widen slightly. His stomach began to loosen up and he gratefully relaxed a bit.

When he looked again to his father he was once more stunned, this time by the words he heard. "We've been talking. There are some things we need to discuss."

Yeah, this was Loki's work. Definitely.

"Um..."

"Hiccup." It was his dragon's voice and it instantly pulled his attention away from his father. He looked down at Toothless' familiar face, then followed it up as the Fury sat. At that moment the last sticky shreds of confusion slipped away and a great feeling of relief spread through him. The dragon looked down at him, as plainly happy to be back in Hiccup's company as he was. Thoughtlessly he threw himself against the narrow chest and wrapped his arms as far around the muscled neck as he could get them. His cheek pressed hard against his friend's throat as the welcoming purr continued to rumble through the Fury's compact frame.

No words came to him. He simply wanted to _be_, letting the presence of his friend push away all his fears and doubts. For the moment the three questions were forgotten, both Astrid's voice and his father's were silenced. Warmth, understanding and protection were once again his, all bundled up beneath the dark scaly skin he embraced.

"Hiccup." His dragon spoke again. He looked up, pleased beyond measure to have that proof of his friend's true nature out in the open. But when he saw Toothless' eyes and head shift toward his father, his pleasure faltered a bit.

As well as Hiccup knew his father, the man was still capable of projecting a truly unreadable expression. That's what he saw now. Stoick watched his son embrace a Night Fury as though it was a long-lost relative and did not give a hint of how he felt about it. Hiccup knew it was deliberate; he'd seen it used as a tool when forcing a compromise between disputing families. He pulled away from Toothless' warm hide but kept one hand solidly on the dragon's neck.

"I need to call a council." His father's voice was quiet but firm. "As I said, we've been talking and there are things we need to discuss afterward."

The implications of Stoick's words came to him then. "Talking?" His voice climbed as much as his eyebrows did. "Really?"

The inscrutable expression melted into irritation. "Well I suppose I did the talking," was the brusque reply, "but he can make himself understood." The chief flicked a hand at the dragon in question. "When he feels like it."

As bizarre as the notion seemed to Hiccup, it occurred to him at that moment that his father might have gotten the answers to the three questions that had plagued him for nearly two days. That he had been able to get those answers before Hiccup, and gotten them directly from the Night Fury, felt so out of place that the young man had to take a moment to figure out how he felt about it.

As he stared at his father, letting his words soak in, he found he didn't like it. Some unmapped boundary had been crossed during his absence and it felt to him that he had somehow been left behind. The chief had wanted to know why dragons were once again raiding them, if Toothless was a leader among dragons and if dragons could tell lies. If the two of them were able to calmly occupy the same house after talking about such things, then the Night Fury must have somehow reassured Stoick. What could he have said?

He looked up into Toothless' face, looking for a hint of what might have passed between his father and his best friend. The only word Hiccup could think of to describe what he saw displayed on the dragon's wide face was 'somber.' He turned back to Stoick and opened his mouth to ask what had been discussed. Before he could, he realized what else had just been said.

"A cou- a council?" He glanced briefly at Toothless, trying to piece together a picture of what had happened. There was too much missing.

"Aye." Stoick's head lifted slightly, a gesture he'd used often when he'd worked out a solution and wanted others to figure it out for themselves. That annoyed him because most likely he _hadn't_ worked out anything by himself. If his father had answers then he'd gained them from the Fury while the two of them were alone.

Hiccup eyed his father a moment, feeling as though whatever might be brought forth in such a meeting would lead to more discord. Perhaps he wasn't being fair to the man but when he considered the personal history of Berk's leader...

"To discuss... what?"

"The reason dragons are stealing our food again," he answered slowly.

Several things flickered through Hiccup's mind, like Thor's lightning bolts dancing on an angry sea.

Stoick's voice was calm. That meant whatever was going on with the dragons hadn't worked him up into a frothing fit of anger. That was good and Hiccup was vaguely pleased to hear it.

Then he noticed a subtle change in his father. The inscrutable look was gone. He didn't know what to make of his expression for a moment until he realized the massive Viking before him was touched by the same concern as the Night Fury. Whatever Hiccup had missed between the chief and the dragon had left his father somewhat disturbed.

Stoick and Toothless were worried and that _couldn't_ be good. He looked again to his dragon but there was nothing forthcoming from that quarter. Turning once more to his father, he asked in an exasperated tone, "Which is?"

Without breaking eye contact, Stoick pointed down toward the hearth. "That."

So Toothless had been drawing for his father. He had expected that. He studied the swooping lines and twisting curves that laced the bed of ashes. It took several moments to decipher what had been drawn. They weren't Toothless' usual streamlined pictographs; they were more like his first experimental drawings in the fire-scoured dirt of their cove. He could make out two islands, both surrounded by flying dragons. One island had far more than the other. Near the more populated land mass, a patch of disturbed ash gave the impression that something had been drawn and then damaged. He turned his head a little, trying to determine what he was seeing.

He saw a club tail. He saw a snout. And he saw six eyes.

None of which made sense.

"The Red Death?" he muttered in confusion. He looked up. With a shrug he asked, "What about it? It's dead."

Stoick shook his head slightly. "That's not the one you killed."

Hiccup felt himself frown. His father's statement sounded ridiculous at first. How could he possibly confuse a drawing in the ashes for the monstrosity that had nearly killed them all? But Stoick's matching frown and the seriousness of his tone told him such crazy thoughts were entirely out of place. So what had he meant?

An impossible, unbelievable, utterly horrible idea formed in his mind and he rejected it immediately. But his father's words brought it back to life just as quickly. He tried again to banish the absurd notion that there was...

Another one.

There couldn't be. There couldn't possibly be.

Stoick's face and Stoick's voice killed any hope he had misunderstood. There _was_ another one. Another Red Death.

There was a second gargantuan monster living on Red Death Island. Some small, analytical voice in the back of his head criticized him for not seeing it sooner. If the enormous beast they had bested in flight had enslaved the dragons and caused them to raid Berk, then new raids would _have_ to mean a new Red Death.

His stomach clenched and his breath hitched at the realization of what it meant to both Berk and the dragons.

A low moan seemed to come up from the very bottom of his chest. He suddenly felt cold. He stepped backwards to Toothless and blindly pressed against the dark, warm bulk.

His breath rasped once, twice and then finally came out in a surprisingly shrill note. "Hhhhow can there be **another one**?" Stoick seemed not to have an answer, nor to much care about the question. In desperation he turned to Toothless. "How can there be **another one**?"

Toothless only nodded, his solemn expression darkening to something closer to pain.

It was all going back to the way it was; dragons somehow being held captive and forced to forage, Berk being attacked and raided mercilessly. They had all gone through so much misery, so much change and now it was going to be undone by-

By another pitiless beast.

Hiccup's line of thought abruptly halted. The notion of 'pitiless beast' jarred something askew in his head. He had a memory, from long ago, of his father using that phrase. As a small child he had struggled to understand the noisy, burning terror that visited their village. He'd asked a seemingly simple question. 'Why won't the dragons leave us alone?' Stoick's answer, as clear and cold as pure ice, had been, 'Because they are pitiless beasts.'

But they weren't. They knew that now. They had never been pitiless beasts, only unwilling servants to a ravenous behemoth. The dragons had wanted their freedom as much as Berk had.

Hiccup blinked. The Red Death had been a dragon, hadn't it? Reality seemed to bend around the edges.

What if-

"It doesn't matter how. It's here and we need to deal with it." Stoick glanced at the rumpled ash-dragon. "Somehow."

The image of his father holding a knife close to the Night Fury came back to him sharply and he remembered how the leader of the village had 'dealt with it' last time. Hiccup's brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. Still pressed against the hard muscles of his friend's warm chest, he muttered, "Deal with it?"

To his credit, the man who had nearly led his village on the most disastrous hunt of their long history seemed to understand what his son was implying. He even had the decency to look a trifle embarrassed, for the second time in one afternoon no less. "Definitely not like last time," he amended. He glanced down at the oak and iron replacement for Hiccup's leg. "That goes for both of us."

"Yes," Toothless interjected, nodding. That Stoick only spared the dragon a brief look before meeting his son's eyes gave the boy a shiver of hope. It also renewed the line of thought that had brought him in search of his father in the first place.

"Dad, if we're going to..." He eyed the drawing once more. "... _deal_ with this thing, shouldn't we let people know the truth about the dragons?"

Stoick looked truly perplexed. "What truth?"

There was another monster to fight and another epic battle to look forward to so of course any normal Viking would lose sight of the little details. Hiccup took a step forward, frustration putting an unusual edge to his voice. "That dragons are people." He heard Toothless shift slightly behind him followed by a soft crooning in his left ear. He raised his left hand and stroked the underside of the Fury's jaw without taking his gaze from Stoick.

His father leaned back, obviously ill at ease with the thought. A slight frown appeared and he shook his head slightly. "That's not a good idea, son."

Hiccup unknowingly matched his father's expression. "Telling the truth is not a good idea?"

Stoick dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "It will only muddy the water. We've a battle to prepare for and such ideas would only spread confusion and distrust."

"They need to know that they'll be fighting for more than themselves. They'll be fighting to save the dragons, too."

'Save the dragons' brought a deeper frown to the man's face, but a grunt from Toothless and a quick glance at the Fury's eyes diminished it. "Listen to me, Hiccup. This is about survival. This is about fighting against those-" His eyes darted over to the Fury's again. The large greenish yellow eyes that stared back at him gave him pause. "Look," he said, splitting his attention between the two of them. "This is hard for me, dealing with..." He hesitated, then gave a small nod toward the dragon. "...you. Knowing what you are. But the people aren't ready. They won't accept it." Hiccup drew a breath and opened his mouth but Stoick beat him to the punch. "Not yet, anyway." He pointed to the damaged drawing. "Not until we deal with that."

"You can't keep it hidden forever! It's not fair, to either side!" Hiccup wished he had spoken to Gobber before he'd come here. Then perhaps the idea would have had a chance to take hold on its own, spread as the master smith spoke to others about the revelation his dragon riding apprentice had. He wondered if his father would forbid him to mention it to others and force him to inform the village himself, without permission.

"I have no intention of trying to keep it hidden forever," Stoick replied, his face and voice expressing serious offense. "You don't understand. You're too close to th..." Another quick shift of the eyes to the dragon in the house. "To him. You've forgotten everything that's happened between Vikings and dragons before you met Toothless."

The tiny shock of hearing his father actually use his friend's name kept Hiccup from objecting immediately.

"We can only fight one battle at a time, son. The dragons are raiding again and we're sliding back toward a war we cannot win because of _that_." Another jab of a meaty finger toward their new collective tormentor emphasized the last word. It was followed by a tipping of his head toward the door. "Berk understands the danger it poses, or it will once we let them know. We've had half a year to see the difference. We know what we'll be losing if we don't take care of this now."

Hiccup stared at his father, an unexpected anger brewing in his chest. He could hear his own quickened breathing even over Toothless' deeper, louder gusts next to his head. "I haven't forgotten," he said, his voice brittle. "I know exactly how Berk deals with threats, whether it understands them or not. Glorious destruction." Even Hiccup was surprised by the amount of venom lacing his last two words. He saw the reaction on his father's face and knew he'd hit a nerve.

"What are you saying," Stoick demanded. "That we try and make friends with _it_?"

A strange thing happened in Hiccup's head. An idea blossomed in his mind, huge and crazy and impossible to understand in the single moment it had his attention. Then the heat of the anger he felt drove it away. He wasn't sure he would be able to get it back later, but at that moment he also wasn't sure he cared.

"I'm saying they'll see no difference between _it_ and the dragons! They'll go back to killing them like before and not know they're killing _people_!"

Hiccup's anger was contagious and Stoick rose from the table, his face darkening. "And if those _people_ start killing us, then what?"

Hiccup knew what. He knew many of the villagers would happily go back to living their lives the way they used to, slaughtering 'mindless beasts' and not knowing or caring that they were killing someone who could be their friend. They would never comprehend the terrible fate of all the dragons living under a Red Death, being forced to give their lives and freedom to a monster.

But Stoick's question was not wrong. If there was a fatality during a future raid, how could Hiccup argue for the rights of the dragons? How could he convince anyone that dragons were ever meant to be anything but servants to a monster and dangerous pests to Vikings?

He didn't know. And it felt like the time he had to figure out the answer was already too short. Too many dragons had left and too few villagers had formed that critical bond with one. Berk had been denied a chance to foster a widespread understanding of the importance of taking dragons into consideration. If the raids continued, the pressure would mount. Something would be done. But what would be the target; a huge monster that could easily wipe them all out or its unwilling minions which Berk killed as a matter of course?

Hiccup deflated. Anger was not an emotion he experienced often and it drained him. He could see no clear way to answer his father's question, but he still needed to know Berk's chief wasn't going to set them back.

"They'll have to know sometime. It's too important." His voice had dropped but he could still feel the tension pulling at his insides.

Stoick's expression softened somewhat. "I agree." He paused there, letting his words filter through the jumble of Hiccup's disturbed thoughts.

Hiccup looked up, blinked. A glimmer of hope surfaced and he tried to hold onto it.

"We need to attack the bigger problem first," Stoick continued. "Then, when peace has been restored again, we can show them where things really stand." He shifted his gaze to the Fury. He hesitated slightly before speaking, but forged ahead. "Let the people win a battle they can understand and will want. Then they'll be better able to adjust to a new way of thinking about you and your kind."

The chief's son wasn't pleased with the idea of letting the village remain ignorant of the truth. He had to admit, however, that Stoick's reasoning was sound. His own concerns about how much difficulty the average citizen of Berk would have accepting the notion of dragons as people helped sway him. But it was the man's willingness to address the problem once the new Red Death was gone that allowed him to go along with the idea.

Which immediately led him to ask his next question. "What will you tell the council?"

Stoick gave a tiny shake of his head. "I don't really know." The council was simply the most prominent members of the village, beyond Stoick and his second, Spitelout. "Mostly that there's a new Red death that must be stopped, I guess."

"How will you convince them it's out there? You gonna tell them Toothless told you about it?"

The unhappy frown that creased his face spoke of his displeasure at being shown an obvious flaw in his simple plan. He glanced again at the dragon in question and shook his head again. "No, but you understand Toothless better than anyone else. If they question it, I'll tell them it was your notion brought about by your... close association with a dragon."

Toothless 'humphed' in a most human way. His lids lowered and his ear fins dropped by half.

Stoick looked the Fury square on and said, "It's a small thing, a little twisting to get them going in the right direction."

The dragon was not impressed.

The chief planted his balled fists on his hips and said, "And which do you think is more important; telling the villagers you talk to us with doodles in the dirt or getting rid of that cursed thing?"

The large eyes, pupils narrowed and brows lowered, swept over the damaged picture. Toothless studied the wounded ash-dragon for several moments. His ear fins lay down completely. He grunted something; a word, perhaps. Hiccup couldn't tell. But the tipping of his broad head toward the drawing made his decision plain.

Stoick nodded. "All right then." He addressed Hiccup and the young man couldn't help feeling like his father was finally seeing him as an adult, worthy of consulting on important issues. "I'll be back later. We-" His eyes shifted again toward the Fury. "The three of us need to discuss this more. We need to start making plans." Toothless nodded and his father walked out.

Hiccup felt strangely out of sorts, trying to deal with opposite ends of his emotional range. He was gratified, for Toothless' sake, to see his father treating the Night Fury like a thinking being. Even more, he felt a noticeable amount of validation in his desire to accept dragons into Berk's fold. But to know they now faced another menace that could possibly ruin everything they'd gained made him want to put his head between his knees. He occasionally had bad dreams about losing Toothless or falling off him while flying. He didn't have bad dreams about their fight with the Red Death, though. They'd won that battle and he hadn't believed for even a moment they would ever face a challenge that dangerous again.

Hiccup remained still, unable to put his thoughts into order. He found himself staring at the misshapen dragon in the hearth. A voice in his mind kept saying, with quiet determination, 'we beat it before, we beat it before, it's dead and we won.' But another voice, smaller and frightened, kept objecting with, 'but we almost died!'

His eyes were drawn to Toothless. The dragon was staring at him, his solemn expression an unsettling thing to see. He wondered if the same voices were telling the dragon the same things.

He let his gaze rove over the Fury's form, looking for something he couldn't explain. The familiarity of the dragon's presence brought him the luxury of happiness but now there was a strain, a weak spot of some kind. Something had changed while he was away this morning and he still couldn't fully understand or identify it.

He opened his mouth, having no clear idea what he wanted to say. The words that came were simple, quiet and laid his soul bare between them. "I'm glad you made it back safe."

The reaction he got pushed aside everything that bothered him, again. A deliberate curling of those lips, never made to move that way naturally. A perking of the ear fins. The wide and friendly set of his pupils. Hiccup had to envelope him again. He staggered forward, his metal leg catching slightly on the leg of the table. His arms wide, he pressed himself onto the dark, pebble-skinned chest and let the troubles of Berk fall away. His cheek met the rumbling surface of Toothless' neck and pressed hard, his skin and his ears each responding to the purring growl. A sudden tightening in his throat kept him from making any sound of his own. He gripped hard, as if needing to compress what lay in the scope of his arms directly into his heart to keep it safe.

The dragon's head lowered, his chin and throat pressing gently into his shoulder and spine. Hiccup knew it for the hug it was meant to be and let it blanket his mind as long as he could. In this moment, in his house, all was right and good. He would treasure those precious seconds of safety and warmth and keep them as protection against what he knew was coming.

When he finally pulled back, he stared into those luminous yellow-green eyes. As much as he cared for Toothless, as much as he trusted the dragon, there was a question he very much wanted answered. It wasn't one of the three questions that had hounded him the last day and a half. Those had essentially been answered. It wasn't one of his father's questions. At this moment they were secondary.

There was a question that had bothered him since the subject of a new Red Death had come up. It had come to him as soon as he saw the Fury's expression in relation to the new threat to Berk.

"Toothless," he asked softly, "Are you afraid?"

The dragon seemed puzzled.

"Of _it_," he whispered.

His friend's eyes slid toward the drawing in the hearth. He stared at his own warning for several long moments, seeming to ponder the question. Hiccup had gotten fairly good at reading the dragon's facial expressions. He was convinced that the longer the dragon looked at the representation of the largest imaginable threat to Vikings and dragons the more disturbed he became.

Eventually Toothless tore his gaze away from the menace he'd warned them of and faced Hiccup.

"Yes."

There was another question that surfaced, equally important. Asking it went against his father's earlier statement, but it still had to be asked.

"Could... could we fight this one the same way... like we did-"

"No."

So. They wouldn't have to repeat that terrifying battle and risk their lives as before, despite having been successful the last time. With one grunted word from Toothless, Hiccup could let go of the notion that disobeying his father might help. But he also lost the only idea he had on how to fight against such a powerful enemy.

"Do you have any ideas?"

Toothless actually lowered his gaze, as though embarrassed or ashamed. "No."

Hiccup impulsively reached out and pushed up on the dragon's chin. The Fury looked at him, those huge, beautiful eyes seeking his automatically. "Hey, we'll figure this out." It felt strange to be reassuring such a powerful being when he truly had no idea of his own how they would succeed. It almost felt like a lie, but he supposed it was really more of a wish. Or a pledge.

Yes, a pledge. He felt it in his heart. It was an oath, to work as hard as he could to find the solution they needed. He drew a deeper breath. That was something at which he excelled; figuring out problems. And to solve a problem, the first step was to gain knowledge about it.

With a tilt of his head toward their enemy in the ashes, he asked, "Do you know much about those... things?"

Toothless picked up his metal pencil and made a single symbol in the gray dust. [small]

Hiccup nodded. "Better than nothing."

* * *

Smoketail was finally getting the support he needed to properly claim his new nest. Kin were bringing in more food and his hunger was easing. This would change before long, he knew. When the first of the eggs began to rupture and spill out their squealing occupants he would get less. The hatchlings would need feeding every bit as much as he. This would be his next challenge: keeping control of himself while Kin did all they could to feed both their offspring and their Gatherer. His dam had taught him that hunger was an enemy that required two weapons to defeat: a nest of healthy Kin and self control.

"We balance all on a wingtip," she'd said. "Too high, too thin. Too low, and we're grounded. The weight you put upon your nest must never exceed their lift."

And so Smoketail restrained himself, trying to learn what the limits of his nest were and holding back when he wanted to snap up some stray Kin or other.

There was the preytooth, of course.

But Iceblood was too unique and interesting to lose in a wasteful moment of mere consumption. Although it might taste good, it provided something beyond sustenance. It offered him amusement.

Crush Claw had kept his promise. The preytooth actually _did_ bring offerings of food, although they always tasted of firescale flames. Smoketail had to assume the pitiful little creature could not hunt for itself and Crush Claw allowed it to have a portion of his kill. That the preytooth offered its portions to the nest's Gatherer was fitting and good, if more than a little strange. But that was ultimately its real value.

Smoketail had even allowed it to ride on his forefoot when he moved about the nest. He'd seen it riding on the firescale's shoulders as Crush Claw flew in and out of the nest. He'd watched with great amusement as it finally scraped up the courage to attempt to climb onto him. His own body was far too large, though. The preytooth had gotten no farther than the primary joint of his foreleg before he fell. Since then it had contented itself to sit upon the wide spread of his forefoot, holding on as best it could.

With a slow, languorous stretch, he roused himself and moved his growing frame from the warm, smoky depths of the nest to the high cave that opened onto the main nesting grounds. Many Kin sat beside their nests, occasionally heating their eggs or switching out with their mate to look for food. As he watched, two stonebellies and a brightscale flew overhead and dropped offerings. Smoketail opened his mouth and caught them easily.

He growled with pleasure as shortly thereafter Crush Claw appeared. His preytooth was on his back and he clutched a small slashback in his claws. The firescale hovered close, calling for permission to touch ground. It was unnecessary since he was of the nest, but Smoketail quietly growled his acceptance anyway. Crush Claw dropped the slashback to the ground and landed next to it. Iceblood slid off his shoulders and picked up the slashback. It was no easy burden for him.

To allow for the fact that the preytooth could not fly on its own, Smoketail had made a small adjustment for accepting food from Iceblood. He crouched down low and let his lower jaw touch the floor of the cave. He opened his mouth and awaited the offering.

As it often did, the preytooth made its strange mewling sounds before it heaved its burden onto his tongue. He could taste the slashback. He could taste the faint hint of skin fire from where Crush Claw's talons had held it. He could even detect the slight trace of oil and salt left behind by Iceblood's pathetic little foreclaws. Had any Gatherer before him tasted such an interesting morsel?

Smoketail turned his attention to Crush Claw, who had learned to relax (if only slightly) in his presence. "Are there any more of these preytooths near this nest?"

Crush Claw looked to his bond partner, who had once again clambered up onto Smoketail's forefoot. "There is a nest of them some distance away, toward where the sun rises."

"Are they all like this one?"

"No. They are as varied as Kin."

That interested Smoketail. "Bring another one here. I want to see how they vary."

Crush Claw suddenly scented of fear. He did not, he noticed, scent of deception. "I cannot. Only Iceblood will ride me."

Smoketail rumbled his displeasure. "How will I see these other preytooths if you do not bring them to me?"

The firescale moved back a step. "I do not know. They do not heed Kin unless they have bonded." He considered a moment. "You could fly to their nest." But almost immediately this idea soured in his liver. "They would not like it, though. They would almost certainly flee."

Smoketail had no intention of leaving his new nest. His wings were sturdy and strong but his place was there. Until his new nest was completely settled, he would not leave it. "I see no reason to go see their nest. I want only to see them." His eyes settled firmly on Crush Claw. "You should find a way to bring some new preytooths here." He turned his gaze back to the opening of the cave and to the nesting Kin outside. "I would find that very amusing."

The firescale said nothing but Smoketail knew his words had been heard. These preytooths might be useful in some way, if there were more of them in the nest. He wasn't certain what role they might fill, but it couldn't hurt to at least have them filling his mouth with food while Kin were feeding their hatchlings.

Perhaps preytooths could make his nest even more successful than he'd hoped. He could imagine it; the lands of his new nest teeming with preytooths working to support their Gatherer, bonding with Kin and providing even greater protection for all.

Perhaps, Smoketail mused, I might have the most successful nest of all Kin flying.

* * *

Toothless was getting much faster and better at drawing his pictographs. Many of the simpler words they now used had been reduced to a few lines that somewhat resembled runes. Hiccup noticed that many of the 'words' Toothless had created were made of curves where Nordic letters were mostly formed with straight lines.

He wished his comprehension of his dragon's intentions was as swift. Except for the occasional misinterpretation, Hiccup's biggest problem with reading the Fury's writing was understanding the meaning behind it. Some notions were easy to grasp, some were a bit tricky and some utterly baffled him. He felt certain that given enough time to talk it through, he could find the meaning of most of the confusing statements carefully scribed in the ashes.

His father's council had gone on for some time, allowing him to work his way through several difficult question and answer dialogues. Hiccup's head was starting to hurt and what he'd gleaned from their exchange was not promising.

"Ok, let me see if I've got it," he said, not for the first time. "This new Red Death is a very young one, and it's not as big."

"Yes."

"It will be strong, quick, a better flyer than the last one. It will also be harder to trick."

"Yes."

Hiccup sighed. "But that won't matter because it probably won't come out of its hiding place. To get to it, we'd have to go in after it."

"Yes."

"Which is a horrible idea because it's controlling all the dragons like the last one did. They would wipe us out before we could even find it." Hiccup threw down the kindling stick he'd been using to sketch in the hearth along with Toothless. "Well, that's just great," he muttered. He fumed silently a moment. "So, what happened last time?" He looked up at his friend. "Were we just lucky or something? Did we catch it on a bad day?"

[Red Death - lot time - small head]

Hiccup blinked. 'Red Death' had already been stripped down to an oval representing the monster's head and speckled with six dots for eyes. "Lot time, small head," he intoned, puzzling over the meaning of the words. 'Small head' almost sounded like an insult. "Lot time, lot time." He sat up straight. "A lot of time! It was old!"

"Yes." Toothless nodded.

Encouraged, Hiccup pointed to 'small head' and said, "So, it was old and had... a small... head?" He frowned. "Its head was bigger than three houses. Small he- small brain?" He glanced at his dragon again and pointed to his own forehead. "It wasn't very smart?"

"Yes, yes!"

His momentary satisfaction at solving another draconic sentence was quickly swept away by the realization of what the statement meant. "The only reason we beat it was because it was old and stupid?"

The dragon commiserated with a low moan.

Hiccup dropped his face into his hands, momentarily at a loss. "Great. And the new one isn't old or stupid. Wonderful. So we're right back at the beginning." He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus his thoughts. "This isn't... I need information. We're in the dark with this thing." He lifted his head, catching Toothless' eyes. "So." He took a breath. "I need to start... asking different questions."

Toothless simply tilted his head quizzically. He looked down at the words and drawings in the ashy sketchpad. He let the questions that were rolling around in his mind circle him, waiting for the right one to come forward. He stared and thought. Toothless said nothing, only watched.

Eventually a question that he'd had after coming out of the dragon nest at Red Death Island the first time came back to him.

"Toothless, how does a Red Death control other dragons?"

Oddly, the black dragon seemed to hesitate. He looked to the ash bed but made no move to draw anything. He then turned back to Hiccup, raised one forepaw and gently touched him on the nose.

"Huh? Nose?"

Toothless grumbled, then leaned closer and sniffed at him.

"Ummm, breathing? Sniffing? No?"

Frustrated, the dragon leaned even closer, paused and then belched directly into his face. Hiccup jerked backward, fanning the air.

"Augh, what was that for? Nothing personal but your breath is really... wait."

Toothless nodded.

"A Red Death controls other dragons... with its breath?"

The wide head pitched up toward the ceiling as a loudly barked, "NO!" rattled his eardrums.

"What then? I don't understand!" Hiccup gestured abruptly at the dragon's mouth. "With bad smells? That makes no sen-"

"Yes!"

Hiccup glared at his friend, wondering how in Midgard Tuffnut had ever managed to influence the Night Fury with his ridiculously crude sense of humor. "You're telling me a Red Death can control hundreds of other dragons with... bad smells?"

Toothless nodded. "Yes." Then he shook his head. "No."

This was the dragon's response when Hiccup was close to an answer but needed to look at it a different way to reach the truth. He considered that a moment.

"It doesn't control hundreds of dragons with bad smells," he said slowly, trying to twist the idea around in his mind to see where Toothless needed him to go. "But it does control them with... good smells?"

Now it was Toothless' turn to think hard, trying to figure out how to nudge his friend in just the right direction. He didn't answer Hiccup's last question, but he did move back to the hearth and begin carving lines in the ashes. They weren't pictographs, though. They were just lines. He looked at Hiccup, then down at the lines. He leaned close and sniffed at them.

Hiccup backed up quickly as Toothless suddenly flopped down and began rolling and purring, kicking his legs and thrashing his tail. His antics nearly knocked over the cooking tripod and tipped the water bucket onto its side. Distracted by the commotion and the new mess his friend had made, it took him a second to realize what his dragon was doing. Toothless was imitating his reaction to the meadow grass that had an intoxicating effect on the flying reptiles.

"Ok, yeah, you like the smell of meadow grass."

Just as quickly as it began, Toothless' happy convulsions ceased. He patted a clear spot in the ashes and began drawing pictures again. He drew two dragons with an egg between them. He looked up at Hiccup.

"Ah, I think you're losing me again."

Toothless' reached with his empty paw and flattened the egg. In its place he drew a very small dragon. Over the hatchling he drew the same lines he used for meadow grass. He glanced at his rider and then sniffed the drawing of the newly hatched dragon. A familiar grunt rattled from deep in his throat. His eyes rolled back slightly and he opened his mouth and made a sound like he was regurgitating a fish. That was a sound Hiccup would likely never forget.

Feeling more confused than ever, Hiccup muttered, "The smell of baby dragons makes you sick?"

Again Toothless growled, "No" in agitation. He thumped his rear to the floor and stared at his drawing. Outside they could hear a seabird calling. The dragon looked up at the ceiling and then applied himself to the ashes once more.

Next to the dragon family he'd drawn he created a pair of birds, also with an egg between them. Then he flattened the egg and replaced it with a small version of the parent birds. Over the baby bird he placed the meadow grass lines. And again he sniffed at the hatchling and reenacted vomiting up the contents of his stomach for its benefit. This time, however, Hiccup could see the point the Fury was trying to make.

"Oh. Ohhhhh! You guys feed your babies the same way birds do!"

"Yes. No."

"Ugh."

Toothless leaned close to his drawings once more, sniffing at the adult dragons. He looked up at Hiccup. He moved over the drawing of the newly hatched dragon and sniffed again. Then he pretended to retch up a meal for it.

Hiccup thought he now understood, but was highly skeptical. "Hatchlings have a smell that... makes adults want to feed it?"

"Yes! Yes!" Toothless nodded energetically.

"Really? Huh."

Now Toothless drew his pictograph for a Red Death. Above it he placed the meadow grass lines. He leaned over it and sniffed, then started gagging again. Hiccup's jaw dropped open as it finally came clear to him.

"The Red Death has a smell that makes other dragons _want_ to feed it?"

Satisfied he had gotten his idea across, Toothless nodded. "Yes."

Hiccup stared, unable to believe what he'd been told. "_That's_ its control? Making other dragons think it's a hatchling?" It hardly made any sense. If dragons were people, as smart as an average Viking living in Berk, how could they be deceived so easily? "How could any dragon confuse the Red Death for a tiny hatchling?"

Apparently Toothless had anticipated this question. He held up his drawing tool for a moment to claim Hiccup's attention, then applied himself to his dusty canvas. This time he drew a dragon with an obviously broken wing.

"An injured dragon?"

"Yes."

Lines were added, coming off the one-winged dragon.

Hiccup was silent for a moment. "An injured dragon makes the same smell as a hatchling," he murmured.

"Yes."

His eyes shifted between the dragon family and the wounded individual. "Its support," he whispered, the whole of it dawning on him. "Hatchlings can't speak, injured dragons might not be able. They make a smell that strongly influences others to feed them, take care of them."

"Yes!"

He looked up at the obviously pleased Night Fury. Some part of him was also pleased they had worked out another mystery concerning how dragons and their world worked. But there was something else, something larger slithering through his thoughts. It disturbed him despite the clarity it added to their situation.

"The Red Death was using... _is_ using... a natural reaction that causes dragons to help each other. But it uses it to force them to bring it food, to protect it. It turns them into slaves."

Toothless just watched him as the realization worked its way through his guts.

"Red Death Island wasn't a nest. It was a... a prison!" He shook his head, more and more disturbed by the idea. The old one, the monster that had apparently driven the dragons to meet its enormous demands by going after any food source, had been the sole cause of the generations-long war. And now a successor was poised to drag both sides back into conflict, just so it could have enough to eat.

Hiccup felt certain the dragons wouldn't want such an arrangement. "The other dragons, on the island... they don't want the Red Death there?"

"NO!" The Fury turned his eyes immediately to the damaged Death hovering over his rendition of its island and roared his anger at it. He reared up and slammed both front paws down on it. The impact was powerful enough that ashes spewed out from under his claws in short streams and the ground beneath compressed noticeably. Gray dust billowed up and turned his forelegs the color of old iron. The smell of ashes and burned wood filled the house.

Toothless' answer was so loud, his outburst so violent that Hiccup recoiled, suddenly being forced to recall the unimaginable power contained within that sleek black body. For a single heartbeat he was absurdly grateful he'd never caused such hate within the Fury's heart. Then another insight came to him.

"That's why you were willing to fight it." His voice wavered and his heart still thumped at the shock he'd had. "That's why you wanted so much to kill another dragon."

"Yes." [hate Red Death]

So another puzzle was solved and his companion's actions during the battle made much more sense. Toothless and the other dragons from the training arena had been willing to attack the monster that had enslaved so many others in the hopes of freeing them. And now those others were once again threatened. Or already enslaved.

For a moment the similarity between Vikings and dragons became more disturbing than enlightening. There were old stories of other Viking tribes that had practiced slavery, raiding small villages and taking captives elsewhere for profit. Berk's people, from it's founding to the nearly constant state of siege under which it lived, had viewed such practices as dishonorable and counterproductive. Berk lived because every villager knew survival depended on solidarity and a certain amount of sacrifice. If other tribes had managed to contact them during their war they would have certainly been seen as potential allies, not potential slaves.

But the Red Death used that concept of forced servitude to support it. It was pressing hundreds of unwilling dragons into dangerous and wasteful efforts for nothing more than its benefit. Hiccup's new perspective on dragons now had him wondering how a Red Death could justify such selfish and ruinous behavior.

And that thought sparked the next question, one that had flickered through his mind earlier and been lost before he could act on it.

"Toothless, what if we tried talking to it? Could we ask it to leave?"

Hiccup didn't know what to expect of such a line of thought. He supposed the Fury might reject the idea, for various reasons. Perhaps he might think it worth taking the chance. He might be skeptical, as Hiccup felt himself to be. Something about the gargantuan creature that had chased them through the skies seemed to preclude intelligent conversation. But Toothless had said it was old and slow of mind. Perhaps a young one might be convinced.

One thing he'd never expected was to see stark fear on the black dragon's wide, expressive face.

He'd seen his friend express this kind of fear only once before, in the presence of an eel. If Toothless had felt any fear during their battle with the old Red Death, Hiccup hadn't seen it from his seat upon his shoulders. It was not a comfortable sight now, especially when all he'd asked to do was consider an attempt at communication. Surely it would be easier for the Fury to talk to the other dragon rather than fight it, especially if it was the size of a small hill.

"No."

Apparently not.

"Well, wouldn't it be worth a try?" Hiccup stepped closer to Toothless, reaching out. "If the two of us came to it-"

"NO!"

Hiccup cringed, shocked now that the outburst was aimed at him. Worse, there was some odd mix of desperation and anger in the Fury's eyes. He'd never wanted to cause such a reaction, to bring obvious dismay to the only individual who had ever placed unwavering trust in him. It felt disturbingly like the countless times he'd seen disappointment in his father.

"Isn't there _any_ chance we could-"

"No." Toothless was resolute now. The fear seemed to have been pushed aside in favor of a grim determination to avoid possible risk.

He could see there was no changing the dragon's mind. As they stared at each other a different view of their relationship opened itself to Hiccup's eyes.

The Night Fury had become his emotional support; confidence and daring he'd never felt alone lit along his veins when he was with Toothless. They had worked together, failed and triumphed together. Each had shown a singular desire to help the other become better; to achieve in unison what was impossible separately.

There had only been one other source of such selfless support in Hiccup's life; his mother, gone these many years now. He could still remember her encouragement, her vigorous praise at his accomplishments and her quiet sympathy in his low moments.

But the look on Toothless' face now was plain to see; determination to prevent Hiccup from getting into a situation he might deeply regret. This was the mark of Stoick the Vast, forcefully etched into every day of Hiccup's life after his mother's death.

There was no way he could act upon his suspicion without his dragon's knowledge. He couldn't get to Red Death Island, couldn't try speaking to the new occupant. His idea could not be acted upon and so he had to abide by his friend's decision. He just wished there was a better answer than 'the old Viking fall back', even if it was endorsed by the Night Fury.

Hiccup took a deep breath, trying to ignore the new tightness in his stomach. "So," he whispered. "No choice but to fight it."

Toothless' eyes softened. He leaned forward and pressed his head into Hiccup's chest again, crooning gently. Hiccup placed one hand on the dragon's lower jaw, wishing he could win the dragon's acceptance as easily as he could give him pleasure by scratching one special spot.

The Fury backed up, looking more like his old self. He rumbled quietly a bit then made marks in the gray dust.

[bad much danger]

"Yeah, I guessed as much."

Danger, he thought. Protection. The Fury's goal hadn't changed. Toothless simply didn't believe exposing themselves, or at least not Hiccup, to the danger a new Red Death represented was worthwhile. There was nothing unusual or disappointing in that. It was a sign of their friendship. The dragon wanted Hiccup to stay safe.

For himself, Hiccup certainly didn't want to court destruction needlessly. Nor did he want to go against Toothless' firm insistence that they couldn't speak to the new threat on Red Death Island.

But honestly, shouldn't there be some other way of dealing with the new dragon besides the same old Viking way? Hadn't they learned that lesson firmly enough?

And hadn't Toothless claimed that only Terrible Terrors lacked the power of speech? Or had Red Deaths been excluded from that conversation entirely?

That thought led him directly back to his father's upsetting question: could Toothless lie? Could his best friend be misleading him in the belief it was for Hiccup's own good? It was difficult for them to hold a conversation; withholding certain facts would be easy. Toothless certainly was capable of having his own priorities and goals. What was he capable of if his priorities differed from Hiccup's?

As he stared at the pictograph of 'Red Death', he came upon another worrying question: were dragons able to feel prejudice?

One new dragon, a dozen new problems. Caught as he was between Toothless' and Stoick's firm belief in which problem was most dire, Hiccup knew he would have to focus on it alone. The other aspects, however, simply moved back in his mind, awaiting a chance to be revisited. There was still time, even if it was short.

"Well buddy, I guess we better start working on a plan."

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2013

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN: **It came to me early on that when Hiccup realized Toothless was a person, sooner or later it would affect how he viewed the dragon's actions. I could almost believe it might be similar to the learning process of a couple who are newly married. The change in the relationship forces a deeper understanding between both parties. Given how often marriages end in divorce, I assume these revelations don't always go well.

Apply that idea to the friendship between Viking and dragon and this is what you get: changing aspects.

There's a lot of Italics in this chapter, lots of emphasis and yelling. It hasn't been an easy day for anyone. You might notice I used **bold **characters for the first time in this chapter. For some reason, FFN will not allow more than one punctuation mark at the end of a sentence. So an emphasized question that should have both an exclamation mark and a question mark at the end will have one dropped, whether we like it or not. I've had that modification made without notice to previous chapters and decided to change the way I approached my formatting. I'm not fond of it, but we must use what's available.


	29. Ripples

.

Broken

Chapter 29: Ripples

The clouds were trying to distract him. They were forming the strangest, regularly rumpled patterns he'd ever seen. From the ground they would have been momentarily interesting but up among them, gliding casually in their element, they forced themselves into his thoughts. Kettlecrack didn't know if he should be grateful or annoyed.

He had plenty of other things to consider at the moment; important, life-changing things. Strange looking clouds shouldn't have even crossed his mind.

But they did. There was an entire sheet of white, billowy clouds with orderly waves of frozen puffiness stretching out as far as Midgard went. It looked like the ocean had been turned to pure froth and heaved upward into the sky.

He shook his head and forced his gaze back to Grimjaws' neck. The Nightmare was energetically working his way back to Berk. He wondered if the dragon had the same misgivings about what they'd left behind as he did, considering how hard he was trying to return home. A moment later he realized the foolishness of such thoughts. Dragons didn't think nor did they plan. They either did what you told them to... or they didn't.

Kettlecrack flinched as he realized that was the problem. As good as things had turned out on Red Death Island, he couldn't avoid the sour thoughts that tainted every moment he spent trying to puzzle out his next step. Those stomach churning thoughts were spawned by his misgivings about what a dragon would or wouldn't do.

Not long ago it had all been very simple. Simple was good and within his grasp. He would tame a dragon, train it to attack targets on the ground and then show Stoick why Vikings were meant to conquer their enemies from the air. He'd accomplished the first two steps, in spite of some really aggravating difficulties concerning his dragon's behavior. The last step should have been the easiest since all he had to do was demonstrate what he knew to be true.

Alrekr changed all that.

In the strictest terms, meeting the young Red Death shouldn't have changed anything. Except, perhaps, the length of his life span. If Kettlecrack had attacked the enormous beast and been killed, a Valkyrie would have retrieved him and taken him to Odin's glorious halls. If he'd escaped with his life, then he'd have proceeded with his plans to use Grimjaws. He might have mentioned the new dragon hulking around the old nest to Stoick later on, but only after they'd proven the validity of his ideas.

Instead, his stunted dragon had stepped between him and the huge creature. His mount may have had some basic understanding of how to placate the Red Death, having lived with the previous one. But it didn't take Kettlecrack long to understand that giving the charred boar carcass to the new Red Death could give him an opportunity he'd never considered.

Having never considered the opportunity meant he had only the sketchiest idea how it would work. Even so, he'd made considerable progress. With Grim's help, he'd gotten the monster to accept food from him numerous times. In a moment of pure Viking bravado, he'd worked his way onto the dragon's enormous foot, the only perch he could physically reach. While it wasn't entirely dignified, it was significantly more impressive than straddling an undersized Nightmare's sinuous neck.

Hoskuld's Spear slid into view as they neared Berk. He was close now. He needed to figure out how to present what he knew, what he'd done. He had to present this to Stoick and make the chieftain see the undeniable destiny of his warriors. He knew he could succeed with Grimjaws. It would work and Stoick would be forced to admit he was wrong. Grander, bolder plans could follow once he had secured his place among the chief's advisors.

But what of Alrekr?

The young Red Death was worth a dozen of Grimjaws. The sheer power that beast could bring to a battlefield staggered his imagination and expanded the potential for Kettlecrack and Berk as nothing else could. Not even Hiccup's Night Fury could hold a torch to such might.

But how to manage it? Kettlecrack hadn't made so much progress with Grimjaws by thinking himself incapable of great feats. Tipping his head back, however, made him question his idea. Looking up at that huge head, that gargantuan mouth filled with oversized teeth... how could he honestly exert any kind of meaningful control over such an animal?

Alrekr accepted food from him, true. He let Kettlecrack ride him, in a fashion. Despite the implied ease and natural inclination to do so, the Red Death hadn't eaten him. These things had to mean _something_. Should he propose using the beast? Should he even admit to its existence?

Kettlecrack simply didn't know. But the urge was strong. The idea of directing a destructive force like that gave him a shivery kind of pleasure he'd never known before. And it was all laid out in front of him. He was nearly convinced it _must_ be possible. Thor himself may have conjured that storm to deliberately bring the two elements together: a Red Death and a Viking with the foresight to see how to use it.

As they drew near Berk more immediate concerns filled his mind, namely food. And some proper drink. Perhaps even a good cleaning. He was no stranger to rough living for days at a time while on a hunt. Confining himself to Alrekr's cave except to hunt had been harder on him than he expected. He'd been able to fill his belly well enough with all the meat he and Grim brought to the nest. But with so little money in hand after Gobber'd insisted on payment for his saddle, bread had been missing from his diet for some time. So had vegetables. With so much meat going down his throat lately his gut was starting to complain. He needed a real meal from the great hall. Some of Freya's cooking would set him right; a nice hearty stew full of greens and onions.

Grim was easily directed to Kettlecrack's house and he dismounted. He didn't bother removing the saddle from his neck as he expected to need it again fairly soon. Stepping inside he found his affairs exactly as he left them. It took only a moment to pull off his tunic and slip on his spare, rinse his face and hands in the rain barrel and scavenge up a few half pennies from his hiding place. Buying a meal at the hall might be an extravagance at the moment, but he needed some decent food.

He also wanted to hear what the gossips were saying.

When he stepped back outside, his undersized Nightmare was gone. He grunted in irritation. Trying to convince the chief he'd succeeded in training the dragon would only work if the beast was present. There wasn't much he could do, though. It would be back eventually. With a dismissive wave of his hand to the world in general, he strode up the big hill to the great hall.

Kettlecrack stopped at the doorway, surprised by the buzzing, animated crowd within. While it wasn't unusual to find a gathering at the tables some evenings, this was something different. It wasn't a party or a drinking contest or a villager regaling their fellows with tales of great hunts and epic battles. This was the low, droning conversation of the most social denizens of the village discussing something of importance. Berk was chewing on a serious piece of news.

He found Freya and one of her daughters by the fires tending the kettles. He approached as casually as he normally would, as though he'd never strolled around Red Death Island or ridden Alrekr's enormous foot. He glanced in the pots and found one to have a hearty cabbage soup. He pointed to it as said, "A bowl and some bread." A half penny was dropped into the collection bowl and he was quickly served. Before he went to find a seat he asked Freya, "What's all the fuss?"

The woman gave him a strange look and scoffed. "Where you been the last two days?"

He scowled at her attitude and considered telling her exactly where he'd been. But she turned back to her kettles before he could speak. He turned with a huff, deciding it wouldn't do to speak on what he knew without finding out what had happened in his absence. There was a niggling fear in his heart that his secret was already known or that something critical had changed and all his plans were destroyed.

Kettlecrack moved slowly, keeping his eyes on the bowl of soup in his hands to avoid a spill. He also listened closely to the conversations he passed.

"...knew this was going to happen. I knew it all along. Ye cannot trust..."

"...scared him to death and him only a wee lad. A lucky thing he got...

"...ready for it. I didn't let my blade rust like some I know."

"...was there, I saw it. If it wasn't Nidhoggr himself it was close enough..."

His step faltered as the last comment reached his ears, causing some of his soup to spill. Nidhoggr? Was that fellow talking about the Red Death? If he was, why had that topic come up now? He gazed around, looking for an open seat nearby. The benches were nearly full and while he wasn't averse to pushing himself into a spot he saw a potentially better location two tables over.

Stonetoss was holding court.

Berk's most prevalent gossip had his usual cluster of busybodies around him and he was going on about something, his hands making small, tight gestures. Kettlecrack couldn't hear the words spoken for the man liked to keep his crowd small and intimate. He was sure this was to keep people with better information than his from overhearing and contradicting him. Even so, he often thought the man had a fairly clear view on events that effected Berk's residents.

A simple plan came quickly to mind. While Stonetoss was hardly a friend, Kettlecrack considered him a reasonable source of information and had talked to him on many occasions. Having been off the island during whatever event had set Berk buzzing, he could settle down among those willing ears and get the gossip's version whole. Stonetoss would doubtless love nothing more than to lay the whole thing out again for a new member of his audience.

The area around the heavyset Viking was filled with large bodies, the eager faces that accompanied them turning as one to watch Kettlecrack settle his own considerable frame. He sat as close as possible while giving only a passing nod to the nearest man. His intentions may have been somewhat obvious but that mattered little. Kelda Ornolf, the only woman in the group, stared across the table at him. She leaned closer and hissed at him.

"Oy, Kettle, what d'you think, eh?"

Before picking up his spoon he pressed the end of his brown bread into the soup, causing more to slosh over the side of the bowl. He crammed the soggy lump into his mouth and chewed contentedly. His simple plan had worked. He raised his head, glanced at her and mumbled around the savory mouthful, "About what?"

Stonetoss exchanged a meaningful look with Kelda before he tipped his head down and leaned forward, staring from beneath the bushy shelf of his brows. He spoke with a gritty voice full of doom and only enough volume to carry the words to Kettlecrack's ears. "About going back to war with the dragons."

A tiny gasp drove a lump of soupy bread into his throat. He slammed his hand to the table as a tremendous rattling cough forced the entire mouthful out across his knuckles for all to see. Disgusted looks crossed the nearest faces. Those looks turned to scowls as he hitched a great breath to yelp, "**WHAT**?"

Stonetoss balled huge fists before him on the table as he growled, "Quiet!" He coughed twice more, getting his throat cleared. Before he could speak again, Kelda's voice chilled the air with her disdain.

"Yer forgetin', Stone. Kettle's a rider."

Kettlecrack got his spasming throat under control. He wiped his hand across his leggings and glared at her. Yes, he was a rider; he'd tamed and trained a dragon. But he was a Viking first and foremost. He was _the_ Viking who was going to change Berk forever and bring about a glorious new age of dragon-borne battle, Alrekr's unknown temperament notwithstanding.

No one at the table noticed the difference. Kettlecrack was getting angry and that normally meant an immediate fight, likely going from verbal to physical within moments. But he'd spent weeks getting his face smashed, being thrown to the ground from the air, seeing the newest generation of breeding dragons protecting nests full of eggs and tentatively laying claim to the greatest weapon that could be unleashed in Midgard. He'd seen and done too much to let one irate comment push him into ruining his own plans.

Still, he was mad enough to spit out a raspy, "Yeah, I am. So what?"

"So you've got the enemy between your legs, that's what." That came from Knutr, a short but powerfully built man who, like Dotta Lundby and Eirik Thorston, had taken a glancing blow to the head from a dragon. Instead of being burned or struck, he'd had the teeth of an enraged Nadder just miss taking his head off. Rather than losing his life, he lost most of his left ear and a small portion of his scalp. The trench of scar tissue ran up under his helmet to end somewhere beneath his coal-black hair.

Kettlecrack had a clearer view of what dragons should be than these people. He relished a good fight and wanted to be chosen for Valhalla, but their old enemies should now be considered their weapons. Stonetoss' cronies were not the ones he needed to convince, though. He needed to save his arguing for Stoick. Rather than try to convince them, he asked, "Why are we going back to war with the dragons?"

Annoyingly, Kelda repeated the question Freya had asked only minutes ago. "Where have you been the last two days?"

Clearly something important had happened and Kettlecrack needed to get his plan back to work. He cleared his throat once more. "I was-" He hesitated, realizing that even if he didn't mention his purpose and his discoveries, he would only draw scorn if he said he'd been training Grimjaws for fighting. "I was... hunting. Out in the western islands."

Quietly suspicious expressions met his answer.

"I got caught by that storm. Got grounded for a bit before I could get back."

Kelda scoffed again, this time at the implication that Kettlecrack had been riding his dragon to do his hunting and he silently cursed himself. It wasn't like anyone didn't know he had a Nightmare, though.

"You missed the raid, then," Knutr muttered darkly.

Kettlecrack stared a moment. 'Raid' was a word that had fallen out of use since last autumn. He had almost gotten used to not hearing it unless someone was describing past battles with the dragons. "What raid?"

"Several sheep snatched right from their pens," answered Kelda, her voice roughened with the familiar promise of retribution against their scaled tormentors. "Yrsa and Signy were nearly carried off themselves."

"But..." He was confused. The raids were over, the attacks had stopped. There hadn't been a problem with the dragons since Hiccup killed the Red Death.

Kettlecrack's heart nearly stopped. Alrekr! He'd seen dragons flying over its head and dropping fish and small game for it to eat. He hadn't seen any sheep among the food brought but he could have easily missed it.

He stared at Kelda with panic growing cold in his gut. How could he convince Stoick dragons were weapons worthy of Vikings if they went back to attacking the village? And if the chief found out about Alrekr, he would almost certainly go back and kill it. Hiccup and his Night Fury had dispatched the old one easily enough with their cunning and their flight. As powerful as the Red Death would be as a weapon, he feared it might not withstand their combined force any better than the previous one.

All his plans were threatened and his entrance to Valhalla once more in doubt because dragons couldn't behave themselves around a Red Death. But he'd fed it, climbed on it, survived several days in its company. There had to be a way to salvage this.

But only if Stoick didn't restart the war.

All this ran through Kettlecrack's head, leaving him worried and feeling slightly dizzy. "What..." he asked faintly. "What are we going to do?"

"Stoick's called a council," Stonetoss announced knowingly, as though he'd been consulted about some decision. The gossip was now in his element. The speculation on future actions and the flourishing rumors about recent events put a sparkle in his eye like nothing else. He once again hunched forward toward his tablemates and gave his opinion. "Ingifast told me Rorik's almost ready to launch. And I've seen Gobber getting a lot of weapons ready for this 'trading mission' they've been talking about." He paused significantly. "A _lot_ of weapons." He glanced out the open doors of the hall, past the multitude of occupied benches and laden tables. "It's getting on past noon and their council is still going."

Stonetoss sat up as several bodies came walking into the hall together. The springtime sun lit them from behind, making it impossible to see anything but blurry silhouettes with some distorted colors around the edges. As the new group made their way into the darker interior of the hall they could see they were some of the fishermen who'd left the day before on Eyvind's Tonna. The dejected faces they wore, coupled with the fact that no horn had been sounded at their arrival, meant that their catch had been slim and no help was needed with the offloading.

Hunkering down toward the tabletop and his group of listeners, Stonetoss gestured loosely toward the doors. "I talked to Ingifast about that voyage Stoick's sending out. I asked him if he thought we might find some of the other tribes we lost contact with." He paused again, looking at each face briefly. "I asked him if we were looking for allies to go back to that nest and clean it out for good."

"What'd he say," Knutr prompted.

"Well, he couldn't say much now, could he," Stonetoss replied craftily. "Stoick's got to know this whole thing with the dragons was a mistake. It's finally come around and we're getting bitten, hard. Yrsa and Signy weren't the first, you know." He thumped a thick, calloused finger into the tabletop. "Sigurd Clayfoot had food snatched right from his eaves." Thump. "Several baskets of fish have disappeared from the docks." Thump. "Kelda here had some of her flock plucked out of their pens a week or so back. And you can bet it's going to get worse."

There was only one detail that concerned Kettlecrack.

"We're going to find other tribes so we can attack the nest again?"

Knutr fairly bristled. "Why shouldn't we? That cursed monster is gone, nothing but regular dragons left now. We just need more swords to finish the job proper."

He wanted to breathe a huge sigh of relief. Instead he only nodded slightly and muttered, "Yeah, right." So they didn't know about Alrekr. At least not yet. His relief didn't last long.

"So when the time comes, you'll do what needs to be done?" That came from Kelda. She stared steadily at him, as though prepared to judge him on his answer. Her question vexed him, though; it was too vague. And he really didn't like being judged, especially by people who plainly couldn't grasp the larger truth.

"What needs to be done," he repeated in a flat tone.

Kelda leaned forward and hissed with considerable intensity, "The dragons have to go. Including yours. You'll need to put it to the sword."

Kettlecrack reflexively leaned away from her; the words she spoke were repellant to him. Grimjaws wasn't the perfect dragon but he'd made a lot of progress with the Nightmare. It represented a lot of time, effort and money. Killing it seemed wasteful and pointless. He didn't get time to ponder it but there was a warmer feeling involved when he thought of the undersized dragon as well. He briefly supposed it might be the feeling any pet's owner would have for a useful and somewhat agreeable beast.

Those thoughts washed away in the flood of disgust in Kelda's voice. With a brittle grimace she declared quietly, "See, told you he's a rider."

That pushed him too hard. His anger flared again and he spoke before he could consider his words. "It's useful!"

"Useful?" Kelda looked like she wanted to spit in his face.

"I can use that dragon to bring me greater glory than you'll ever see!" The heat of his words pushed back at her. She welcomed the fight and came at him again.

"Glory?" Her eyes widened momentarily before she growled back at him. "Glory on the back of a _dragon_?" She chuckled, a phlegmy rattle that made her words even uglier. "A stunted, weak little _Hiccup_ dragon at that?"

"No," he snapped, "A Re-"

His jaws snapped shut on the rest of his words. He could only guess at what crossed his face; dismay, shock, perhaps even a touch of fear. He saw Kelda's eye glitter at his slip and a fiercely cruel smile pulled at her heavy lips.

"A what," she demanded.

It was all going wrong again. Just like his dragon, just like the training. He had everything lined up for success and some random word or event sent everything spinning out of control.

These people were blind. Kelda, he remembered, had called for punitive measures against the Lundby girl's Nadder when some of her sheep disappeared mysteriously. She hadn't demanded the dragon's death but she'd implied it would have been only just for the beast to pay with its life for her losses. This woman still hated dragons and would never see them for what they could be.

None of them would.

Kettlecrack looked at the others seated nearby. He had their full attention, most especially Stonetoss. That one looked like he was being handed fistfuls of gold with all the gossip he could generate from this confrontation.

So once more his plan was ruined. Showing Stoick he could fire targets on the ground wouldn't be enough when there were people who could passionately argue for the complete destruction of the nest on Red Death Island. The trading mission was going to end any chance he had of securing a place among the leaders of Berk by bringing in more warriors and removing his only advantage.

He glared at Kelda, no longer caring what she or the others thought. He had other priorities now. He answered her with a sneer. "A _real_ dragon. A dragon so powerful our enemies will quake in fear when they even mention Berk."

Kelda suddenly burst out laughing so hard spittle flew from her lips and landed near his bowl. "A real dragon!" She laughed even harder. "So you found yourself a nice fat Gronckle then, did you?"

Anger squeezed Kettlecrack's heart so hard it was all he could do to keep from hitting her. He bared his teeth, clamped his jaws so hard they ached. He stood without thinking, his fists curling against the ale-stained tabletop. As he did he noticed something he'd missed before.

They hadn't been whispering anymore. Nearly every eye he saw was focused on them and their argument. 'Danger!' his mind whispered. 'Keep the secret!'

Why bother, though? Berk would find its allies, attack the nest and discover Alrekr soon enough. He needed to find a way to bring it under his control. Or at least his influence. He needed to bring the Red Death to bear against anyone who would threaten it. He might have only weeks, once Rorik left. Perhaps months if he was lucky. He was wasting time with these fools.

"You'll see," he muttered angrily. "You'll all see."

Kelda just laughed all the harder as he pressed the remainder of his bread into his soup and took the bowl as he left. He had work to do.

As he made his way out he passed another small body making its way into the hall. He had the brief impression it was Hogknee's boy, Jaspin. He was wearing a sword. He only noticed because as Jaspin turned to avoid him the scabbard in which it rested turned and smacked Kettlecrack in the shin.

"Watch it," he grunted as he stalked away.

* * *

The difference was astonishing. Numerous skilled warriors had told him time and again that there was no comparison and he'd believed them. But he hadn't truly understood. Not until he began trimming trees with it.

Jaspin felt like he was learning to handle a sword all over again. His grandfather's blade was an altogether different weapon from either the short sword he'd started training with or the heavier, full sized practice weapon he'd been carrying for some time. It was lighter, thinner. It seemed to come alive in his grip, responding to his wishes with fantastic speed. The higher quality steel held a wicked edge, too; as sharp as a Nadder's tooth. It had a flexibility that let it take the abuse of slamming into tree branches over and over without bending.

The only thing that Jaspin worried about was learning better control of it. It seemed to get away from him at times. Twice he came to a thicker branch and swung as hard as he could, expecting to need the extra power to get through it. Both times it sliced cleanly through and buried the point in the ground. The sword demanded a finer control to keep it moving where he intended.

That just meant he needed more practice, and he could think of nothing he would enjoy more. Except, of course, dodging clouds on Bitequick's back.

As he strolled back toward the village from another sparring session with the pines, he examined the keen edge of his new sword. He would need to ask his father for advice on how to keep it sharp. He could actually see spots along the edge that showed where his lack of control had allowed the blade to contact things it shouldn't. He hadn't done any damage; there were no nicks in the edge from his exuberant practice.

He sheathed it, thinking on how Gobber had told him it wasn't an ordinary Viking sword. Typical blades were heavy, meant for thick muscular arms to propel them through the armored scales of a dragon. A good Viking sword made on Berk was still a formidable instrument of death even when it was dull. It could crack skulls or break wings with enough power behind it.

That was why, the master smith explained, Jaspin's grandfather had commissioned a special blade. None of the men in the Vapnfjord family had the stocky build that easily allowed for handling heavier weapons. His father favored daggers and long knives coupled with energetic, almost dance-like movements to avoid danger. He remembered seeing his uncle spar with Hogknee, both men working to stay outside the other's reach as they sought an opening. His father had told him more than once that such attacks only worked on larger, grounded dragons that didn't have a spine flexible enough to curl around and bite while he looked to puncture vital organs.

Asbjorn never developed the taste for his sons' 'Deadly dagger dragon dance,' hence his very un-Viking sword. And since they didn't fight dragons anymore, Jaspin needed to learn to use his grandfather's blade against other Vikings. At least that's what Snotlout seemed to think. But he couldn't begin practicing against other people until he had better control. Sparring with real weapons was part of Viking life; even so, some care needed to be taken.

He stopped walking when darkness fell across his face. The warmth of the springtime sun was blocked and the cooler air had a chance to make itself known. He'd been so deep in thought that he'd walked past the rough stone steps that led up to the great hall and into its imposing shadow. Working their way up the steps were several people he recognized as the folks who'd left in Tonna the day before to do some fishing. They looked rather dispirited to him so he figured they hadn't had a good catch.

Jaspin realized he was hungry. He hadn't eaten that morning, wanting to practice as soon as his chores were done. He also had several pennies and half pennies in his leather pouch and could afford a meal. Since Rorik was commissioned for the trading mission and Hogknee unable to fish for his family, people had already stopped taking money from the Vapnfjords. Even Hiccup had refused payment for putting the soft fleece lining on the inside of Bitequick's saddle stirrups. Within the hall was a meal he could buy and warriors he could ask for advice.

As he took the first step up toward the massive open doors, he realized he was still carrying his sword in his hand. He stopped, wondering if he should take it home first for safe keeping.

No, he decided with a small grin. He was nearly a man and men in Berk weren't questioned if they carried weapons. A man could buy some roast boar and talk to his friends without anyone saying a thing. He nodded to himself, his heart lifting as he saw himself and his world in a new light. Sheathing the blade, he continued his way up the steps.

He stopped just beyond the doorway, taking in the scene with relish. The enticing smells of thick stews and sizzling meats mixed with the common scents of stone and wood and numerous bodies within the large space. It called to him, drawing him into the hall and smack into the path of a man leaving with a bowl in his hands. He turned to get out of his way, still accustomed to sidling away from adults who weren't paying him any attention. As he did, he felt the weight of his grandfather's sword swing out and the soft, meaty impact of its end against the other man's leg.

Jaspin gasped slightly as he realized his mistake and held out his hands in a placating gesture. It was a child's error, he knew. He wasn't used to carrying a sword when not on duty.

But the other man didn't seem to care. He merely grumbled a surly "Watch it" and left the hall without even slowing down. Getting only a clear glimpse of the man's back, he wasn't sure who it was. But as long as his blunder didn't end up in a humiliating confrontation in front of the crowd he was willing to let it go. He'd have to be more careful in the future.

Jaspin looked down at the hilt of his sword, his eyes inevitably drawn to the blue and white stone set into the grip. He grasped it, moved it slightly. It took only a moment to see that he could twist it gently to force the end of the scabbard against his knee and prevent it swinging out again. Looking up at the fairly crowded benches within the hall, he could tell it would be a wise thing to remember.

He almost had to argue with Freya about taking his half penny when he asked for a plate of meat and a cup of ale. She eyed him, her expression softly reproachful. He had to struggle a bit to keep the smile off his face as he cleverly used a tactic his father had used against his own sire. When Hogknee paid Asbjorn for making Jaspin his first armored leather vest, he'd said with quiet sincerity, "I earned this money, and so have you."

Having repeated his father's words with success he dropped his money into her collection bowl. He took his food with a thankful smile and looked for someplace to sit. He needed a skilled warrior who wasn't preoccupied. His first choice was Mord, of course. Unfortunately the man wasn't present but there were other good choices. Jaspin wound up standing for several moments, however. Everyone he saw was deeply engaged in conversation. Now that he was paying closer attention he heard the deep drone of Vikings discussing something of serious interest. What was going on?

Disappointment settled heavy in his stomach as he took in the small groups of people in earnest conversation. No one would have time for him today, whether he was on the verge of adulthood or not. He spotted an opening between two groups at one table and headed for it. He felt his scabbard shift and he stopped to look down. His hands occupied with plate and cup, he couldn't hold his sword in check as he moved among the tables. He took an experimental step and watched the sheath swing. If he moved slowly, he would be safe enough.

Once he settled, his sword carefully maneuvered over the bench to press against his thigh, he started in on his meat. He ate slowly, listening to the conversations around him. He was surprised at what he heard.

They were talking about the raid for the most part. Some were discussing what it meant, others what should be done about it. There seemed to be a lot of confusion about why it had happened at all. There was dismay that Berk's safety was threatened and anger that a trust had been broken. A few wanted repercussions while others recommended patience.

Jaspin was surprised there were any who suggested waiting to see what happened until he caught a few words about a council currently being held. The results of that council were what those folks waited on.

The council surprised and worried him. If chief Stoick and his advisors were considering the problem of the raid and what should be done about it, would their decision affect him and Bitequick? Might he have to defend his dragon against accusations of theft or bad behavior? Or would the action taken be swifter, more decisive?

Was Bitequick in trouble?

A single word flicked by his ear, just loud enough to catch his attention. "...nest..." His eyes narrowed in thought. Something bothered him even more than the implications of the council of which he'd just learned. He'd forgotten something, an important something. It had to do with dragons, his and others. What was it?

Jaspin turned his head slightly, mechanically putting chunks of warm meat in his mouth as he tried to remember. From the corner of his eye he saw a familiar man. His mouth froze open and his fingers nearly dropped their load of boar meat.

Stonetoss.

He carefully turned his eyes back to his plate but kept his head turned enough for one ear to catch any stray words that came his way.

"... could it work? We ain't got enough ships now." A woman's voice. A very familiar woman's voice. Kelda Ornolf, the woman who'd loudly argued for punishment against Bitterbug for allegedly stealing her sheep.

Jaspin's stomach plummeted as he realized what he was hearing. People were talking against the dragons, using the raid as an excuse to...

To do what?

He listened intently, forgetting his meal. He didn't particularly like or trust Stonetoss. He'd never had an opinion about Kelda until he'd witnessed her public accusations and angry demands against Herdis' Nadder. Hearing the two of them talking made him nervous.

A long and vigorous belch from the man next to him drowned out part of what those behind him said.

"... even there anymore? We saw 'em all fly off."

There was a pause after that. Jaspin was afraid to turn and look, suspecting Stonetoss would be staring straight at him. He grasped after another hunk of juicy meat and brought it to his lips.

"That's what should be done." A deeper, more powerful voice joined the other two. He didn't recognize it at all and wasn't about to look. Luckily the man was sitting closer to him, on the bench directly behind him. He didn't even need to turn his head to hear that one. "Stoick should take a scouting party back to the nest, make sure that's where they are."

Jaspin's mind seized on the word 'nest' again. There was something there that was very important, something he couldn't quite remember.

Stonetoss muttered something quietly and he missed most of it. He did, however, catch two snatches that sounded like 'when we find' and 'back there together.'

Find? Together? What did it mean?

Ironically, it was Kelda that reminded Jaspin what he'd forgotten. Her strident tone rose and her words were laced with animosity. "Why wait? We know that's where they were nesting."

Bitterbug!

Jaspin twitched as the impetus to leave his seat immediately pushed against the disturbing weight of the dangerous conversation going on behind him. Ideas burst into his mind, crowding him in exhilarating and frightening ways. Bitequick, acting strange the last week or so; Herdis' comment about dragons possibly going off to nest like birds; the warm spring weather causing many of the dragons swarming Berk to display their mating habits for the bewildered villagers; the rapid disappearance of most of those same dragons shortly thereafter.

If anyone had asked Jaspin to wager his grandfather's blade against the whereabouts of the missing dragons, including Bitterbug, he'd have taken it in an instant. More to the point, however, he remembered his promise to Herdis. He'd flown Bitequick all over Berk, looking for signs of her Deadly Nadder. There'd been a moment of real hope as he spotted a few dragons sitting on what looked like nests on the farthest shores of Berk, but her companion wasn't among them.

Now he knew where to look.

But what of Stonetoss and Kelda? What if the chief was planning some dire action against the dragons because of the raids?

He didn't know. He could think of no suitable argument for withholding retribution.

But maybe...

Jaspin's heart sped, his legs trembled beneath the bench. He had to go. He had to see. The answer might be there, on that island, among those nests. There had to be nests. That's where the dragons had lived before, wasn't it? When the Red Death had control of them?

The need for action wound itself tightly in his chest, making his thighs ache and his hands clench. There was a council going on right now. The decision might be made any moment and the chance to speak would be lost. He had no time.

Looking down at his food he realized his decision had been made; he only needed to act upon it. His stomach felt like it was wanting to cramp up. He hadn't eaten that morning and it would be stupid to skip another meal when he didn't know when the chance would come again.

Jaspin downed his ale in one long draught, catching the notice of his seatmate. The largest chunk of roasted meat he grabbed in one hand as he stood up and backed over the bench. He didn't consider where the end of his scabbard might go during such movements and was relieved after it was too late to do anything about it. The man watching him just missed getting his elbow whacked by the leather sheath.

He was out the door in moments, still cramming meat into his mouth and chewing as fast as he could. He needed to find Bitequick.

* * *

Crush Claw was desperate to find Two Hearts. There was knowledge he had to pass on to the watcher. His liver burned hot with the need to warn the ghostwing of what he'd learned at Fire Nest.

"The sky is wide, call for your Kin."

One of the earliest lessons of the nest was how to find Kin. It was simple and his dam's voice spoke clearly in his mind. "Call for your Kin." It would be easy to open his jaws wide and let loose the low, stuttering roar that would carry beyond sight to the one he sought.

He didn't, though. He was flying over the preytooth's nest and he was certain Braintwist would hear him. He didn't want his rider to know where he'd gone.

That left sight and his was not the best. Although his eyes were as good as they would be had he never gotten the egg name 'Blind White', a firescale's eyes were not the sharpest. Nor was his hearing the most acute. Those senses would have to serve, however.

He spiraled up on comfortable risers, their generous lift focused mostly above the land. The sun warmed his back and the risers gave a teasing, swirling heat to his belly. It would have been a wonderful way to spend all of sun high had he not an imperative task. His long neck twisted back and forth, scanning the greening land for any sign of his nestmates.

Crush Claw had only briefly searched the preytooth's nest, expecting most Kin would be out looking for a good hunt or off enjoying the wing-filling risers. He spent some time sweeping back and forth over the trees and fields that surrounded the nest. Finding nothing there he looped out over the shores, hoping to spot anyone who might be bathing or hunting the shallows. Still he saw no one.

Frustrated, he made several tight turns over the nest itself. He worried about Braintwist seeing him and calling him down before he could find the ghostwing, but he didn't see or hear any sign of his rider. Finally he spotted a familiar lump close to a woodcave. With a relieved squawk he angled himself for a low approach. He would touch land a distance away and move closer, hoping not to be noticed by the preytooths.

It was Yellowbreath, lying on her side with her eyes mostly closed. He knew from her breathing that she was deep in thought, not in sleep. He got as close as he dared without trespassing on her space and voiced a needy growl. It sounded rather juvenile to him but he was still desperate and had larger worries.

Her eyes opened fully at hearing him. She locked eyes with him, studied him only briefly and quickly rolled to her stomach. Her wings shivered and stretched before she inhaled sharply, tasting his state on the air.

Her pupils narrowed slightly and she dispensed with even the basest formalities. "What is it?"

"I must find Two Hearts. There is danger."

"Featherstone's woodcave, most likely. You know which one?"

"I... no. I've caught his scent on Two Hearts many times and seen them flying but I don't know of his woodcave."

Yellowbreath's wings fluttered, a short stretching of relaxed muscles. "Follow me."

The stonebelly made her stately way across the nest as quickly as her kind was able. Crush Claw felt a welcome warmth in his liver knowing she trusted his judgment. It almost balanced the ice that had lodged there during his time at Fire Nest. He dreaded passing his news on to the watcher.

They touched ground by a woodcave close to the top of a hill. It sat alone, higher than the others and scented of both preytooths and Kin. Yellowbreath had no sooner set her wide body firmly on the ground than she uttered a simple call for attention. She added tones for urgency but didn't spit her fire at the woodcave to draw extra attention. Crush Claw remembered Swimmer's advice about how easily the preytooth's woodcaves would burn.

The moving portion of the woodcave shifted, making an opening. Beyond, inside the still secret world where preytooths lived their strange lives, he could see and smell woodfire. He drew a short, deep breath, tasting burned foods and the sticky, oily scent that always followed those hairless kin. Then Two Hearts' face and forelegs emerged from the opening. The ghostwing looked at them a moment, his eyes a bit wide. He stepped forward until he was outside the opening. There he turned and called into the woodcave.

"Featherstone!"

A short, thin preytooth appeared. Obviously a fledgling, it looked about at the three Kin outside its woodcave. Crush Claw wondered what the little preytooth would think of his visitors. He was surprised to see him call to Yellowbreath and approach her. The stonebelly rumbled her happiness and pushed her blunt nose into his chest.

The strangest thing happened next. Featherstone leaned forward and threw his gangly arms around Yellowbreath's face. It seemed an obvious sign of affection and it stunned Crush Claw. This was what Two Hearts had told him about his rider; the fearless embrace of a preytooth who held Kin so close to his liver they were like his own kin.

He could only watch, humbled by the display. This was what he'd come to want, what he'd hoped he might one day invoke in Braintwist.

"Featherstone," Yellowbreath rumbled. "Slayer of eels. This one seeks your flight mate." She turned her gaze to Crush Claw and he felt a sudden, baffling need to lower his neck to the ground. Wings splayed, tail limp, he watched in amazement as the little preytooth stepped away from the stonebelly and came to him. He made soothing sounds. They were words, if Swimmer was to be believed. He held out one foreclaw as though he wanted to touch him.

A smell and a sound made him flinch. The sound was strange, confusing. It was like a small prey animal was squealing and squeaking but it came from Featherstone's lower body. Something about it put him on edge. But it was the smell that frightened him.

Featherstone reeked of metal, lots of metal. Crush Claw was still getting used to the scent of sharp metal that came from Braintwist but he'd never faced an angry preytooth defending its home and food so he didn't know if it was normal. The smell that came from Featherstone was stronger and was far more disturbing than the strange sound. But this was Two Hearts' flight mate. If any preytooth could be trusted it was him. The uncertainty was too much and he took a step back. He pressed his body to the dirt, the grass under his neck cool and soft.

"Crush Claw," the watcher admonished. "Get up. He won't hurt you."

He was shocked when the little preytooth turned to his flight mate and spoke to him. Two Hearts looked to his rider, slightly chagrined. "Good," he said to the preytooth. He turned his gaze back to Crush Claw. "Good."

Featherstone took the final steps toward him, foreclaws held down at his sides. He heard the sound again, and this time he could see its source. It came from one of the preytooth's legs. He suddenly realized it was also the source of the metal smell. It was Featherstone's false leg! He'd heard the story from one of his nestmates a while back. He was astounded. How could a preytooth live with metal bonded to its body?

Unbearably curious, he stretched his neck and sniffed at the strange metal object. He could smell living flesh, oils and the horrid tang of metal. This was a preytooth unlike any he'd ever imagined. He looked up into eyes as green as trees. There was warmth there that calmed him. This preytooth was known to Kin. He'd freed the ghostwing from the hole in the ground and helped him bring down the Great Eel.

This time when the foreclaw was raised he welcomed its touch. A slight warmth, a gentle pressure. And then scratching. A tingly sensation lit along his jaws and into his neck and he couldn't help pushing slightly into that wondrous sensation. He thrummed, his worries having flown far away.

Featherstone spoke, a happy sounding burble. Two Hearts looked at Crush Claw and answered, "Yes."

The little preytooth stepped back then, to his sudden dismay. He'd been enjoying the attention so much. Yellowbreath spoke to him. "You have a warning for the watcher, yes?"

Every pleasant moment that had just passed vanished from his mind. In its place came memory of recent days. "Yes!" He swiveled his head to the nest's watcher so quickly that Featherstone was forced to take a step back.

The whole of it came rushing back and filled him with ice once more. In the presence of these Kin and the amazing preytooth, however, he drew strength and determination. He turned to the ghostwing.

"I bring terrible news. Fire Nest is once more enthralled. A new Gatherer has come!"

The nest's watcher didn't react as he'd expected. He simply stared for a few heartbeats. He was further confused when Two Hearts said, "Yes, I know. Its thralls have already begun taking food from the preytooth's nest to feed it. How did you not know this?"

It wasn't easy to focus his thoughts after that. The feeding had begun, he knew. He hadn't known those enthralled Kin had come into the preytooth nest so soon, though. The Kin truce with the preytooths was in grave danger now.

"I was at Fire Nest," he said slowly. "Braintwist and I have seen the new Gatherer. His flight name is Smoketail."

A low groan came from Yellowbreath, matched by a faint hiss from Two Hearts.

"Why were you there? Why did you take your rider to Fire Nest?"

Perversely, Crush Claw found himself wishing for the touch of Featherstone's foreclaws again. "I didn't take him there. We were forced there by fast winds and hard rains. I didn't know Smoketail was there until we faced him in his cave."

Two Hearts' pupils narrowed to bare slits and his rump sank to the ground. His magnificent wings drooped until they, too, creased the grass with their weight.

"You faced him?"

"Yes."

Featherstone was disturbed by his flight mate's obvious distress. He laid his foreclaw on the ghostwing's heavy neck and made a questioning sound.

"In his cave."

"Yes."

Two Hearts considered this a moment. "This new Gatherer must have spoken to you. He told you his flight name."

"Yes."

"What else did he say?"

Crush Claw eyed Featherstone for a heartbeat. "He wants me to bring him more preytooths. He thinks they are interesting."

The ghostwing reared back, barking an angry, derisive roar. "Interesting?!"

The young firescale recoiled. "Yes." He looked again at the small preytooth, who had stepped back at the sudden outburst. "He wants to see how they vary."

"That will never happen," Two Hearts growled. "He would most likely eat them, anyway."

Crush Claw grunted a negative. "He didn't eat Braintwist."

Two Hearts stared, a strange penetrative look that made him uncomfortable. "The Gatherer didn't eat your bond partner?"

"I... I convinced him not to."

"How," asked Yellowbreath.

"Yes," Two Hearts added. "How could you convince a Gatherer to not take prey?"

"I promised him Braintwist would bring him food. And he did." Crush Claw turned to Yellowbreath. "I helped him with that."

"Why would a preytooth want to feed a Gatherer?" The stonebelly turned troubled eyes to the nest's watcher.

"I think Braintwist wants to bond with it."

There were many heartbeats of silence after that. Two Hearts continued to stare at him while Yellowbreath and Featherstone watched without speaking. Crush Claw felt obligated to add, "Heart truth. He even climbed onto the Gatherer's forefoot and stayed there a while."

The ghostwing turned his gaze to Yellowbreath, then to Featherstone. For a moment he could scent confusion from the nest's watcher. When he addressed Crush Claw once more it was with dismay. "I told you he was better named than you knew."

The firescale had no answer for that.

"Where is he now," Yellowbreath rumbled.

"Among his kind. I don't know where."

Two Hearts considered this for some time. Featherstone waited patiently at his side, one frail foreclaw lying against the dark scaled neck. When he finally spoke, he quietly asked the stonebelly, "Do you think it possible?"

Yellowbreath considered the question, closing her eyes as she chewed carefully on the problem. While she thought on it, Featherstone leaned close to his flight mate and spoke softly into his ear canal. Two Hearts answered with a simple, "No." He then used his forepaw to grasp at some part of the bleater skin device he wore and pulled forth a metal spike of some kind. Crush Claw watched, fascinated, as the ghostwing scratched lines in the dirt. When he finished Featherstone spoke again and Two Hearts scratched more lines

Just as he realized what he'd seen was the language the ghostwing had mentioned using with his flight mate, Yellowbreath spoke.

"I do not see how. You know the nature of Gatherers as well as I do. There is no meat in such a meal. I suspect this Smoketail has some other use for Crush Claw's bond partner and merely tolerates his behavior."

"And now he wants more preytooths brought to Fire Nest to see how they vary," Two Hearts growled.

The stonebelly shifted her weight, glancing at the preytooth nest. "No Kin would bring preytooths to Fire Nest." Looking back to the watcher she asked, "Would any preytooth have cause to return there?"

Two Hearts grunted a negative. "Until now, no." He turned his eyes to Featherstone and gently nudged that one with his nose. "But they might now."

Crush Claw was puzzled by the watcher's statement. "Why now?"

The ghostwing stared calmly at him and he realized with a small shock how closely the color of his eyes matched those of his rider. "The Gatherer is a threat to all. It cannot remain."

Now Yellowbreath was the one who seemed taken aback. "They will attack?"

"Nothing is decided," Two Hearts declared. "But they have been told of their danger. We will act. It only remains to see if they will join us."

Crush Claw was torn. "What of Braintwist? What if he can bond with Smoketail? Can he not influence the Gatherer for our protection?"

Two Hearts seemed to consider this a moment. His posture and his scent both expressed his opinion of the idea. Yet despite his obvious doubts, he did not immediately deny the possibility. "Has he the liver for it?"

He thought on all that had happened between them, the surprises and the mistakes. Braintwist certainly had the determination to hunt what he wanted, even when it made no sense. But Two Hearts was right; the name he'd given his bond partner spoke clearly of the strange thoughts that filled that small, hairy head. "I... I don't know. I think he will try."

The ghostwing was silent for many heartbeats. Crush Claw felt his own doubt grow as the moment wore on. Finally, Two Hearts said, "Let him, if he will. But do not be surprised if he eventually winds up inside the Gatherer rather than on his foot." His tone made it clear he saw this as the likely end of Crush Claw's rider.

Yellowbreath voiced her own doubts. "Is it safe to let them return?"

This time the watcher was silent for so many heartbeats he wondered if he meant to answer at all. His eyes traveled from Yellowbreath to his flight mate, to the preytooth nest, then back to Crush Claw. "No." Startled, he wondered if Two Hearts would ask him to remain in the preytooth nest to keep Braintwist away from Smoketail. With a small snort and a shake of his wide head he finished his thought. "None are safe with a Gatherer around. But Crush Claw's age will protect him. Braintwist..." He stood, shaking his wings a little to settle them against his back. He stepped closer to Crush Claw and looked up at him. "He is for you to protect. He may be a poor match for you but you have chosen him and you have done well together. Do what you can for him."

Two Hearts returned to his flight mate's side, nuzzling that one's ear with the gentlest touch. He spoke one last time to Crush Claw. "Perhaps you can keep him out of the Gatherer's mouth in spite of himself."

The firescale thanked his nest mates. He hesitated a moment, staring at Featherstone. He crooned to the little preytooth and was bid farewell with a raised foreclaw. Taking to the air, he tried to decide where he wanted to go. He had eaten often enough at Fire Nest that he had no desire to hunt. Returning to Braintwist's woodcave didn't feel right, not at that moment. Thoughts of his bond partner made him feel tight and uncertain.

Sleep, he decided. He needed rest to clear the troubling thoughts from his mind. He climbed the risers toward the stony peak of the preytooth's island. Perhaps his sight would be clearer when he awoke.

* * *

Kettlecrack wanted to be angry. He deserved to be angry. Those fools in the great hall were short sighted and couldn't see an opportunity for conquest and glory when it sat right in front of them. He snorted in disgust at the memory of Kelda's words. Put Grimjaws to the sword indeed! What value could her sheep have against a weapon that flew, spat fire and obeyed your every word?

Well, most every word. Usually.

He wanted to be angry. He sat on the steps of his small house and tried to summon the fiery red fuel that he knew could drive him to great acts. He'd been laughed out of the hall; he couldn't use Grimjaws to prove Stoick wrong; the sun was well into its path toward evening and his dragon was still missing.

Yes. He should be angry. But as he sat on his steps and stared at the green grass between his boots all he felt in his heart was doubt and worry.

How could he train Alrekr?

He went over everything he'd done with Grim and could find no real help. He'd already fed him several times. It seemed to know to accept the food he offered without considering him to be part of the meal. It had allowed him to touch it, to mount and ride it as best he was able. The beginnings of training were there, were working. But he could see no way to exert any kind of pressure on it to get it to fly where he wanted let alone attack any target he chose.

There had to be a way!

Even if there was a way he now had to worry about how much time he had left to succeed. Rorik was loose of Ingifast's care and floated at anchor near the shipwright's small shack. Soon she would be crewed and provisioned and would set out to find allies to help destroy the dragons for good.

He glanced up at the sky. No Grimjaws. No dragons at all.

It was getting late and he needed to get back to Red Death Island. To do what, he didn't know. But he couldn't train Alrekr from his steps; that much he knew.

Kettlecrack stood and moved a few steps from his house. He put his fingers to his lips and drew a great breath. Memory made him hold that breath. He laid one finger against his lips to feel how they were healing. They were a bit sore but not too bad. He prepared to whistle once more and blew gently, barely making a sound and feeling no pain. He blew harder and was emboldened at the lack of discomfort. Once more he whistled, as loudly as he could. There was only a mild sting in his lips now. He whistled again, loud and long.

He turned back to his house, scrounging up all the food he had stored. It wasn't much but it was better than nothing. He found a few old potatoes and onions, a single moldy lump of black bread and something he assumed had once been an apple. The rotten apple he tossed and the rest he put in an old cloth sack made from one of his childhood tunics. He had his sword, his dagger. He looked around the house, wondering if there was anything else he might need. There was so little left it didn't matter. He did pick up his old trousers, casually tossed into a corner last summer. He grabbed the tunic he'd been wearing when he got home. It still smelled because he hadn't had time to clean it.

He had nothing else, really. An old chair, a table someone else had tossed out, the lumpy mattress stuffed with dried grass he slept on. Nothing Grimjaws could have carried, even if he'd wanted to bring any of it. It surprised him how little he really had, now that he carried it all in his arms.

A squawk and a thump reminded him of the other things he had; an expensive leather saddle and, beneath it, an undersized Monstrous Nightmare.

Kettlecrack stepped outside to find his dragon perched atop his roof. The serpentine neck stretched down until the narrow muzzle was level with his eyes. "There ye are." He dropped the few items he carried and gave his beast a good scratch under the jaw. The glowing eyes softened and the lids drooped. The deep thrumming made the dragon's pleasure obvious. "Come on down."

He stopped scratching and picked up his meager belongings. With the Nightmare already saddled, it took no time to tie the sack to it. Considering his dragon's small size, it was better he had so little. The extra weight wouldn't keep him on the ground.

He gripped the saddle horn and tensed to mount. Something stopped him. He glanced over at his house, the door standing open and its single room practically empty. Somehow his leaving felt permanent. He meant to go to Red Death Island, he meant to find a way to train Alrekr. But as far as he could tell, he didn't mean to come back here. And he wasn't sure why.

No matter. The future was elsewhere for him. Grim would carry him to his future and they would seize it by the throat, the two of them.

Elbows flexed and eyes closed, he commanded, "Grim, up!"

There was still some time before sunset. More than enough time to get back to his new dragon. Enough time to take one last look at Berk before his destiny carried him off to Odin-knew-where. He directed Grimjaws toward the shore.

It was there that Kettlecrack saw one answer he had needed.

Rorik was bobbing gently in the waves, a short distance from shore. She had her mast but no sails as yet. He could see the lighter colored wood where Ingifast had made his repairs.

The idea snuck into his head and lodged there, unwilling to be ignored. He had Grim circle the beach several times, looking toward the village and down at the small shack. Finally he pushed Grimjaws' horns up to get him to land. Once on the ground he strode up to the shack.

Ingifast only kept a door on his shack during the winter. The rest of the time it was propped outside to be used as a work table. He stepped into the shack, a building even smaller than his own house. No Ingifast. Perfect.

He looked around, seeing no one. From this point on the beach, the village was out of sight.

Kettlecrack remounted his dragon and sent him aloft. He had the Nightmare circle up until they were hovering over the waters close to the beach. Rorik floated just below.

He pushed up on Grim's horns again, sending him into a shallow dive.

"Grimjaws, KILL!"

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2014

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN:** Rumors of my death have been somewhat exaggerated. I wasn't dead, I was just _mostly_ dead. And mostly dead means _slightly alive_. Silliness aside, I had to take some time to deal with other things during the whole holiday block from Thanksgiving through New Years. I'm back in business now and hope to get future chapters out in a more timely fashion.

A note on the name Kettlecrack gave his new bff:

ALREKR: Old Norse equivalent of Visigothic Alaric, composed of the elements al "all" and rikiaR "rich, mighty ruler," hence "all-powerful; ruler of all."

Quite a name to live up to, but I think Smoketail is equal to the task.


	30. Irreparable

.

Broken

Chapter 30: Irreparable

The heat of the earth was different from the heat of the sky. It penetrated his thick hide and made his body feel alive. The ruddy glow of pulsing light that glinted off the edges of his scales was comforting by itself. It promised endless warmth that would keep him active and healthy through all the seasons. There was a deep layer of crushed bones and sand to let him lie at ease. Best of all, a permanent cloud of steam helped keep his skin from drying out. It was so enticing that he spent most of his time down in the lowest reaches of the nest, close to the heat and haze.

Occasionally he needed more. He would need to see the sun, taste the winds, scent the Kin hovering over their own little nests. Offerings were made more often down below but sometimes he would be fed while outside. Sometimes he could detect the lingering scent of rotting flesh from the enormous Gatherer slowly destroying itself down on the beach. It was of no concern to him but its constant presence put the lightest hint of frost in his liver.

Smoketail had only briefly examined the old one's decaying body when he arrived. It was a sorry and confusing sight. Her death had allowed him to claim a large, healthy nest yet there was something about it that bothered him. He'd spent much of his time keeping control over his ravenous hunger, waiting for his own body to acclimate to its new surroundings and the Kin living there to begin supporting him. Thoughts of how the old one ended up in a crumpled, widely scattered mess outside the nest stayed to the back of his mind.

Now his hunger was easing, his patience was being rewarded and the Kin within his new nest were feeding him. Questions formed that had no answers. When he left his egg nest he hadn't envisioned needing to speak to any of the Kin in whatever nest he claimed. It simply wasn't necessary. Now, however, he wanted their words on the old one. He wanted to know what had been her undoing. Her size suggested extreme age and a vigorous nest to support her. But something had drawn her out of her nest. Or driven her.

What could affect such a powerful Gatherer so?

To find his answers Smoketail moved to the top of his nest and started calling to any who would answer.

It wasn't the call of hunger or a call to defend the nest. It was a demand for attention and communication and it went unheeded. He called several times, his strong voice echoing out of the rocky peaks of the breeding nests. Annoyed, he slapped his immense, scarred tail against the ground and roared in pure anger. There had to be some Kin present that were the right age to respond to his demands.

"Silence is strength."

It was another of his dam's lessons, meant to prepare him for the life he would live within his nest. "Enthralled Kin have no words for their Gatherer. Expect no tales, no teachings, no songs. Only the young will speak and they will know nothing. Silence is strength."

Her words had proved true. Breeding age Kin from the old Gatherer's nest went mute almost immediately after his arrival. They were so conditioned to her presence that they wouldn't respond with any real intelligence despite his inability to fully exert his influence. Those few who might speak to him would be those who had only just reached breeding age during the last season of white, between the death of the old Gatherer and his arrival.

With a vexed growl he turned away from the opening to the upper cavern and headed for the passage that would take him back to the comfortable warmth of the lower reaches. A low rumble stopped him.

A stonebelly had landed just outside the cave and stared at him with large, unblinking eyes. Smoketail swiveled his head around toward it and drew a great breath. He tasted fear, that ever-present bouquet that flowed from all Kin around him. He also tasted excitement and the lightest touch of breeding desire.

The stonebelly lowered itself to the ground, rubbing its scales against the stone to tell of its unwillingness to take flight and be seen as a threat.

He'd had some practice conversing with such Kin. Crush Claw had been the first. He had spoken with that firescale several times. But that one was not here now, nor his strange little preytooth.

"My flight name is Smoketail. Who are you?"

Thick, powerful legs raised the body slightly to expose a somewhat wider frame, thus revealing the stonebelly to be female. She clenched stubby talons against the rough stone floor of the massive cave. "My flight name is Pebbletongue. You... you called for your Kin?"

He understood her confusion. She was no more used to being spoken to by a Gatherer than he was speaking to her. But he wanted knowledge and knew how to speak to those of the nest. "I want to know of the old Gatherer."

Oddly, Pebbletongue dropped her body back to the floor. Her eyes were half closed and she smelled suddenly of stress. What did this mean? She crooned quietly, a disturbing sound that swarmed with old fears and new hopes. The way she spoke was not the teaching tone; it was something else, something raw and unformed. "She was the Great Eel, she was the center and the power. She was madness and destruction. She gathered and smothered and crushed, she..." Her words failed and she gave a feral bark of alarm, as if she still feared the very thing of which she spoke. As if it didn't lay smeared across a beach slowly releasing its essences to the air.

Smoketail stood perfectly still, trying to understand the stonebelly's words, wondering why an as-yet unbred Kin could put a touch of ice in his liver with nothing but a few trembling sentences. He stared at her for several slow, thudding heartbeats.

"How was she grounded?"

Pebbletongue pressed her head to the ground and closed her eyes, a long, low groan coming from deep within her. A moment later he scented the bright tang of real fear, sharp and demanding to be heeded. But there was no danger, just him and the stonebelly. The ice in his liver grew. The groan gained structure, tone and form to become a single word. "Preytooths."

The word slid into his ear canal and sliced its way around his insides. Without thought his haunches tensed and his wings rustled and ached to spread.

Why hadn't his dam told him of preytooths?

Foolish! He growled at himself for such hatchling thoughts. He'd seen Iceblood, been serviced by that tiny lump of meat that clung to Crush Claw like a parasite. Pebbletongue offered no true answer, so paralyzed by fear as she was. He needed more from her.

Smoketail did as he would to be fed by that very thing Pebbletongue seemed to fear. He lowered his head to the ground, unintentionally mimicking her posture. He drew another great, gusting breath and blew it over her small form, the smoke and heat of his lungs washing over her like water rushing over a stone.

"Tell me," he commanded. "Tell me of the old one. Tell me of the preytooths. Tell me of the grounding. I will know and you will tell me." He drove his weight onto his crouching forelegs and clenched his forepaws, the claws gouging the stone floor. The sharp snapping and cracking of the rock beneath him made the fear smell explode from the stonebelly.

Pebbletongue squirmed, half wild with terror. Her eyes stayed closed and her wings folded tight enough to distort her well armored skin. "They came in their woodfish. They broke the nest. Kin fled! We feared! Never before!" Distressed whines and growls rose and fell, telling of the end of a nest. When she settled a bit, she continued. "The Great Eel charged, out the hole. Challenged them on the beach. Slaughter fire crushing death." Smoke curled from her nostrils. "They bled, they screamed, they died. They were prey. They were food."

The stonebelly went silent. Heartbeats passed. Her breathing slowed, then quickened again. Something within her changed. She began to tremble, a slight quiver at first. Soon her legs shivered and her body quaked. Her smell changed. Heat and anger and a memory of bloodlust reached his nostrils. The ice once again stroked his liver. Her mouth opened and a long, angry hiss echoed through the cave until a host of Kin was assaulting his ears.

She stood, lurching up and opening her eyes, staring directly at him. "Ghostwing!" she shrieked.

Smoketail twitched.

"Wounded, dead! Broken, bonded! Remade and reborn!" Each phrase built on the last. Courage and terror fought in her eyes and her open mouth glowed orange. "Anger! Hatred! Fury!"

Smoketail growled. Her words were undirected. Hatred for the old one? For him?

For Gatherers? Not possible.

"She rose!" Pebbletongue's wings flared. "She flew! Shreds and tatters and endless hunger! Weak and strong in the wind, hidden in clouds and smoke!"

A battle among Kin? A rogue ghostwing? Could such a thing happen? Ghostwings were watchers, protectors. They served the Nest, as all Kin should.

"Flame. Light. Battle and madness." Her voice lowered, becoming an ominous stuttering growl. "They dove." She stared, her eyes wide and luminous in the darkened mouth of the cave. Her jaws shut on her building fire. Nothing more was said for a short time.

"And then?" he prompted impatiently.

"Death."

Smoketail considered this. The position of the old one's remains did, indeed, suggest a failure to recover from a powerful dive. But why would such an old, immense Gatherer drag herself up into the sky to do battle with a ghostwing and then plummet to her death?

"Who is this ghostwing?" He didn't recall seeing one in the nest. Now that he thought about it, he didn't know if his nest had any watchers at all.

Once again the stonebelly seemed to come alive with some inner energy that she couldn't quite contain or direct. He scented her agitation and bloodlust oddly mixed with the faint coloring of her desire to mate.

"Two livers of fire, two hearts, bonded, ridden, loved." Her wings spread and blurred, lifting her off the floor. He shifted as well, raising his forequarters to keep her level with his eyes. "They freed us."

They? How many Kin was she referring to?

"They freed us!" she roared. "Freed us, freed us!" She drifted backward with a slight angling of her wing strokes, away from the mouth of the cave. "Grounded the Great Eel! No more Gatherers!"

The touch of ice in his liver vanished at the implied threat. A growl of his own built in his throat.

Pebbletongue opened her mouth to speak again and the glow of building fire silhouetted her jagged teeth. "They will come for you!"

Instinct drove him forward. The clashing of his jaws within the cave was as loud as thunder and the stonebelly's fire was a mere burst of warmth on his massive tongue.

Smoketail turned and headed back down to the warmer depths of the nest. He had much to think on.

* * *

Crush Claw wanted to fly in two directions at once. He knew he could be happier draped across Braintwist's woodcave and lightly snoozing as the sun worked its way toward the ocean. But his bond partner had left that place and directed him back toward Fire Nest. His large preytooth would doubtless continue trying to bond with the Gatherer that had settled there. And if he could do that then perhaps he could influence that massive Kin's behavior.

The idea of Braintwist influencing Smoketail made him want to leave altogether; leave his old nest _and_ his new nest and seek some new place to hunt and live. How could his preytooth possibly manage it? He still acted strangely at times, defying anything Crush Claw could think of as level flight.

Two Hearts had said he could try, however. 'He is for you to protect. Do what you can for him.' Whatever idea the watcher had to deal with the new Gatherer, he would certainly need all the help he could get. If Braintwist could somehow convince Smoketail that preytooths had some value, perhaps it might all turn out well.

He spilled air from his wings, getting closer to where Smoketail's upper cave opened to the nesting ground on the mountain. Two hard strokes let him touch ground gently. He lowered himself to let his bond partner slip off his shoulders. Braintwist did so, slowly. The preytooth stood next to him, one foreclaw on his neck as he looked around. All was as before, the nesting Kin watching their visitors as closely as they watched their eggs.

His rider was still calm as he removed the bleater skins that held some old food and walked toward the mouth of the cave. Crush Claw followed him, expecting to be needed if Smoketail was immediately within.

He wasn't. The Gatherer was elsewhere. Down in the warmer part of the nest, he assumed. He cocked his head, listening for those great swelling breaths that would mean Smoketail was resting in the red depths. Hearing nothing unusual he moved closer to the back of the cave. There was a hole that drove down to the belly of the nest. Near the edge he listened again.

He must have been heard. A noticeable wind pulled the air around him down to where the Gatherer waited. It was a certainty that Smoketail had now smelled their presence. A word thundered up to him, pushing on him until his belly touched stone.

"Come!"

Crush Claw peeked over the edge of the hole, gazing into red smoke and swirling steam. He looked behind him to see Braintwist's curious gaze. The preytooth had heard the sound as well.

He didn't want to go down. He'd never been down to the Gatherer's resting place before he left Fire Nest and he had no desire to see it now. But he'd been summoned. Smoketail knew he was there.

Leaning forward and pushing off with his hinds, he launched into the darkened emptiness. He used the glowing light from below to keep his flight true, spiraling tightly down. It took concentration to keep from scraping the walls as he went. Twice he had to flick his wings and violently twist his tail to keep from hitting an unexpected projection.

As he got closer to the bottom he became immersed in conflicting scents. The powerful presence of death coming from the old Gatherer pierced his nose. And side by side with that was the unmistakable odor of Smoketail's den. The young Gatherer's scent was already soaking into the rough cavern walls and competed fiercely with the essences of the Great Eel.

The distraction of scent nearly caused him to blunder directly into Smoketail's muzzle. He saw evidence of the floor coming close. As he made his final turn that huge snout thrust suddenly out of the smoke and steam. With an undignified yelp he flipped over and slammed into the wall, gripping with hinds and wing claws for all he was worth. He came to rest, talons scrabbling for grip and hanging upside down. He craned his sinuous neck up and around to look for Smoketail and cringed as those blunt jaws appeared a single leap away. They were parted slightly, hints of fire leaking upward over the thin black lips.

"What dangers do preytooths bring?"

Crush Claw froze, unprepared to answer questions. Dangers? Didn't all Kin know those dangers?

Of course not. Smoketail had only just left his egg nest. He knew nothing of them save what he knew of Braintwist.

The muzzle parted slightly and closed with a loud snap as the Gatherer leaned closer. Hot moist breath that smelled of death coated his face. "What dangers?" The voice was quiet, demanding. It scared him more than any obvious threat. He pulled his head back and held to the wall tighter.

"Sharp metal." That was the most effective and destructive element they possessed. "Clever traps." Another breath layered him in scalding air. "Aggression. When disturbed they swarm over the ground like water." He'd never seen this behavior but had been told of it many times

The enormous head turned slightly, bringing three eyes to bear on him.

"Who is the ghostwing?"

"Gho-" He tried to shrink into himself, wishing for the first time that he was smaller. He could smell the scent of his own fear. Surely Smoketail knew; how else could he know to ask? "He... he is the watcher of... of the preytooth nest. They have named him First Hunter."

The eyes loomed larger. "What danger does he bring?" Death lurked behind those words. He could smell it, the death of another Kin trapped within each sound.

He wanted to flee but there was no room. Smoketail was so close he could scent every thought he had. Deception would end his life. So would refusal. What to tell him?

The truth. Crush Claw knew it was the only thing that would see him to the end of the day. But one thing he had learned living with Braintwist was that a truth could be made of many parts, and those parts could be both good and bad. And if he was smart, he might be able to use the least dangerous part of a truth to help both Kin and preytooths deal with this new Gatherer.

"He... he bonded. To a preytooth. He wants-" 'Wants' earned him another face full of heated death. "He wishes to... to protect the preytooth nest. Kin are taking their food to bring here. He wishes the hunts to go elsewhere."

Silence. Smoketail stared. Then he moved closer until the tip of his broad muzzle pressed against Crush Claw's back. The words threatened to crawl under his scales and infect him. "I care nothing for where the hunts go. Kin support their nest. The Gatherer is the nest. It is only right."

Shivering and pinned between stone and snout, Crush Claw couldn't answer.

"Iceblood is here. I smell him."

"Yes." A fearful groan.

"He supports me. He feeds me."

"He's... he's useful. I promised." He closed his eyes, dreading where Smoketail would go next.

"You haven't brought any more for me to see." A single tooth grazed his wing joint, threatening to dismember him with a casual twitch of a massive jaw. Its opposing member closed from the other side. He whined, a hatchling sound.

"They w... won't come. I can't bring any-" Pressure built, pain grew. He was moments from losing his wing, likely his life. "They won't come!" he yowled.

Long moments passed. His skittering heartbeat made time turn to stone. Finally the pressure eased, the teeth released. "And the ghostwing?"

Ice lanced his innards, freezing his liver. He kept away from the words spoken earlier that day. Again he hunted for the safest portion of the truth the Gatherer demanded. He took the words into his mind and let nothing else live there.

"He protects his nest." He told himself those words over and over until even his own fire no longer existed. "He protects his nest."

Smoketail took a long, deep sniff, tasting his terror. It was truth, there was no deception. Two Hearts protected his nest.

A heavy scuffing told him of a large moving body. The heated breath of a Gatherer was replaced by the heated steam of Fire Nest's deepest bowels. A single word pushed him away just as a single word drew him in. "Go."

Crush Claw exploded off the wall and thrashed his way up the gently rising air, needing more space between him and the belly of the nest. It took an age to reach the sweet evening air, laced with salt and heated rocks and multitudes of Kin watching over their nests.

He sincerely hoped Braintwist had better luck with the Gatherer than he did.

* * *

Kettlecrack wasn't happy seeing his dragon disappear down the hole at the back of the cave. There wasn't anything he could do to stop him, of course. He heard a rumbling growl rattle up from below that he assumed was Alrekr. Even though it was broad daylight outside, the back of the cave was deeply dark and foreboding. The stench of decay was everywhere, some of it likely coming from the long dead, half eaten Gronckle still sitting off to one side of the cave near the entrance.

With neither Grimjaws nor Alrekr in the cave with him, Kettlecrack felt rather alone and useless. He'd spent the entire ride from Berk trying to think of a way to get the Red Death to do his bidding. Nothing reasonable had come to him. He'd entertained the idea of trying once more to get up onto the beast's back but hadn't thought to bring a rope. He eventually settled at the opening of the cave, watching those dragons nearby that were sitting by nests of eggs. Apparently they'd gotten used to his presence since they now ignored him completely.

It didn't take long for him to realize the cabbage soup he'd had earlier had not filled him as much as he'd wanted. He looked at the meager rations he'd brought and wished he'd thought to buy some bread. Considering the little money he had, he'd have been better off filching a few cod from the docks.

To take his mind off his hunger and keep from eating everything he'd brought, he got up and wandered toward the back of the cave. Curious, he went looking for the hole the dragons used to move up and down inside the mountain. Before he reached the back wall he was beyond the point his sight could help him. He walked slowly with his hands before him.

There was a sudden slope to the floor. His foot landed on nothing and he staggered forward. He tried to lean back just as his boot sole touched ground and wound up completely off balance. Never the most agile of men, Kettlecrack fell backwards with one leg twisting out from under him and the other sliding forward and up. He twisted slightly as he fell, wanting to turn away from the hole that was trying to swallow him. Instead of landing on the stone floor, his hip and knee pinned his sheathed sword to the ground. The pain of the hilt coming between his hip bone and the unyielding ground brought an angry cry of pain that came back from the walls to mock him.

Kettlecrack rolled off his sword as quickly as he could. The relief was short lived as the direction he rolled turned out to be sharply sloped toward the hole. Forgetting his pain, he threw his arms and legs out to support himself and could only whine in terror as he continued to slide backward. He clawed at the ground, struggling for purchase of any kind. Several panicked heartbeats later his feet landed on an unseen shelf of rock below him. He stayed where he was, breathing hard and wanting to curse Midgard at large for this newest addition to his list of woes.

When he had himself under control he swept his arms around him, looking for a way to pull himself back from the hole. He felt a weight on his hips telling him his sword was still with him. At that moment, he wasn't inclined to feel thankful for that small bit of good luck. There was dim light above and ahead of him, letting him see how far above him the rounded edge of the hole was. He wanted to look behind him to see if there were any good foot holds but couldn't bring himself to do it.

Eventually he worked himself up and away from the edge. Once he stood up he could feel the effect landing on his sword pommel had on his hip. Walking hurt and he was sure he would have a serious bruise by the end of the day. He moved back to the entrance of the cave and sat, his mood souring by the minute.

It didn't help that Grimjaws came scrabbling out the same hole that had nearly killed him moments later. The Nightmare saw him sitting by the entrance and came to him, trembling and pressing his nose to his shoulder.

"Fat lot of good ye are when I need ye," he grumbled, pushing the snout away.

A chattering call came from above. A Deadly Nadder was winging down toward them, a small figure on its back.

* * *

Red Death Island was easier to find than he'd expected. He'd never asked anyone how to get to it. He'd only known what everyone knew; it lay a good distance to the west. Jaspin suspected Bitequick had an idea where he wanted to go when he brought her well up into the sky and headed for the late afternoon sun.

They'd flown some distance when he realized it might take too long to arrive. His return trip would either have to wait for morning or he would have to turn around soon and go back to Berk. Looking at the position of the sun, he gave himself a little more time before they would have to go home. He hated the idea of giving up, even if he knew he could try again first thing tomorrow morning. He wanted to find Bitterbug and Seasquirm but he also knew what trouble would be waiting for him if he went missing overnight without warning.

Especially after the raid.

His father had become quite grim after it was discovered that dragons had gone back to stealing livestock. He didn't accuse Bitequick of anything but whenever he was around the Nadder he stared at her with obvious distrust. Jaspin tried not to worry what he would do if his father decided Bite wasn't trustworthy and needed to go away. He was determined to defend his dragon against any such accusations. But in a contest between his father and his friend, he honestly didn't know what would happen. Except that it wouldn't be good.

Finding the missing dragons was the key, he was sure. If they were nesting and needed more food, maybe they could be forgiven. Perhaps Berk could take measures to hide the sheep during the spring thaw each year until the breeding season was over. There had to be a way. Maybe Hiccup could think of something, once he was made aware of where everyone's dragons had gone. Assuming they were at Red Death Island. Jaspin shook his head at his uncertainty. They _had_ to be there!

The island was easy to spot from the air, but being cloaked in mist and steam as it always was made it hard to distinguish from low clouds until they were closer. He saw the tops of the stony peaks being revealed in feathery gusts, including the massive central spire that formed the heart of the nest.

He had originally thought he would circle the island first before landing, looking for concentrations of dragons on the ground. Now he knew that would prove fruitless with so much of its beaches and lower ground covered. Bitequick was a clever flyer, but he had no desire to direct her into an area where she couldn't see where they were going.

That left the jagged peaks. Would the dragons be nesting there? Or would they all be inside, out of the weather? Then again, what did dragons care about weather? Yaks and sheep had thick coats that bothered them when they got wet. A dragon's scales shed water like a smooth stone. Falling rain or snow affected them no more than a day of sunshine or clouds.

As they crossed over the exposed top of the island's mountain he could see the answer. Dozens of dragons were visible, scattered among the rough landscape. Many different breeds were represented in that count. A huge grin lit Jaspin's face as he found the answer Berk needed so badly. He rubbed Bitequick's neck affectionately and the smile slid from his face.

He knew his dragon well and the muscles beneath his hand were the first clue he had something was wrong. They were tight, hard. They had to be to hold the great head up during flight, but she was always moving her head slightly, adjusting to the wind or keeping her gaze on her surroundings. Now she was absolutely locked on something below them, her scales and muscles as tense and hard as stone.

With his attention drawn exclusively to her, Jaspin now noticed there was a deep thrumming in her chest that he could feel in his lower body, even through the saddle and the fleece-lined stirrup straps. He'd never experienced this with her before. What was bothering her?

Bitequick gave a strange call, like a dragon trying to imitate birdsong. He looked over her shoulder to see what was causing her to act so strangely.

Below them and some distance ahead was a large opening in the side of the central spire. Within that opening, he could see a Monstrous Nightmare. Beside the dragon stood a man.

* * *

Kettlecrack's gut clenched as he saw someone riding a dragon over his head. How could they have found him so soon? He felt almost nauseous when he realized the person on the dragon was a young man. For an irrational moment he feared Hiccup had come after him. Then he remembered the obvious. The dragon circling to land was a Nadder, not a Night Fury. Still, who on Berk would have come to this place at the same time he did? Had he been followed?

He stood, his hip still complaining about the rough treatment it had just taken. As he watched the Nadder touch ground, he noticed that the boy was armed. A sword dangled from a new looking scabbard.

The Nadder didn't stand still after it landed but twisted its head around to look at all the dragons nearby sitting close to their nests. The boy jumped down and tried to stay near his mount but the Nadder stepped away. Its rider watched it wander around, looking puzzled. The dragon was rather vocal at that point, chittering and grumbling to those dragons near it. It got no more reaction than either Kettlecrack or his own dragon had.

The boy turned to him, one hand on the hilt of his sword. The blade looked a bit too large for him. Kettlecrack would have assumed it was a training blade based on the boy's age, but the new scabbard told a different story. He'd snuck out his father's blade, most likely, and would probably get a good thrashing when he returned. At least that's how it had gone with Kettlecrack and his first attempt to hunt with his own father's weapon. Without knowing it, Kettlecrack's hand came to rest on his own sword's grip.

A few hesitant steps brought the boy closer, into the shade of the spire and out of the glare of the early evening sun. He peered into the persistent gloom of the cave, holding one hand over his eyes.

Kettlecrack now recognized him as Jaspin, Hogknee's boy. He remembered the fisherman's son rode a Nadder and asked too many questions. He took a step forward, wanting to assert some authority.

"What are ye doing here?"

The boy stopped, dropping his hand. "Anvindr?"

Kettlecrack stopped as well, unsure why being so easily identified worried him. It wasn't as if there were any strangers on Berk. Then the thought came to him: what if the boy tells Stoick?

But this was just a boy and Kettlecrack was a grown man. He'd set him right. He took another step forward. "Aye. What are ye doing here?"

Jaspin pointed over his shoulder at the dragons nesting behind him. "I'm looking for Bitterbug."

The boy's answer perplexed him. "Lookin' fer a what?"

"Bitterbug," Jaspin repeated, smiling a bit. He looked behind him at his own dragon. Bitequick was still milling about, acting like she didn't understand what the other dragons were doing.

"What's that?"

Jaspin turned back. "Hmm? Oh, that's Herdis' Nadder. I'm hoping to find her here somewhere. And Seasquirm, too. Maybe even some of the others." He pointed to the smallish Monstrous Nightmare hovering over his shoulder. "Is that your dragon?" He started walking toward them, friendly as could be.

Kettlecrack was still uncertain how worried he should be about the sudden and unexpected appearance of the boy. If he discovered Alrekr and returned to Berk, Stoick and the rest might come and interfere with his plans. Worse, they might ask him about what happened to Rorik. He'd had some time to think about that impulsive act. He didn't exactly regret it but he was no longer entirely certain it had been necessary.

As bold as could be, Jaspin came up to them and offered his hand to Grimjaws' snout. To his irritation the red and yellow dragon sniffed with interest at the boy's outstretched palm. A few strokes along the bridge between the long oval nostrils and the runt was thrumming as happily as he ever did for Kettlecrack.

Something caught the older man's eye as Jaspin stood there, rubbing Grim's nose. The hilt of the boy's 'borrowed' sword had a beautiful blue and white stone set into it. Now that he looked closer at it, he could tell the handle was of considerable craftsmanship. That, plus the new scabbard made him suspicious.

"Hey, where'd you get that blade?"

Jaspin suddenly frowned and backed up a step, leaving Grimjaws disappointed. His hand went possessively to the pommel. "It's mine."

Having been on the losing side of several arguments about questionable possession of valuable items, he instinctively raised his hands and gave his best smile. "I didn't say otherwise. It's just such a bright... sparkly thing for a young lad like you. Doesn't seem to fit, is all."

"My da gave it to me." Jaspin hadn't expected anyone to covet his grandfather's sword. Admire, certainly. But the look in Kettlecrack's eyes said he felt more than admiration for the blade. Being so far from his home on a self-assumed mission to find missing dragons, he felt he needed to project as much confidence as he could. He didn't want Kettlecrack getting any ideas. "I can use it, too."

The man frowned, soured by the implied threat coming from a mere boy. He decided he didn't like the boy being at the nest. It posed a danger he didn't need. "Best you get along. Go back to Berk. There's nothing for you here."

Jaspin wasn't having any of that. He meant to find Bitterbug and Seasquirm. "I'm not done here. I have to look for-"

"There's nothing for you here!" A wave of a meaty hand swept toward the dragons sitting by their nests beyond the cavern entrance. "It'll be dark soon and you got a long flight ahead of ye."

Jaspin would not be so easily discouraged. "I have to look. Herdis is counting on me."

Kettlecrack's exasperation was mounting. He'd never really liked this kid but he'd never had to deal directly with him before. "What are ye going to do, run around with a torch and stick it in the dragon's faces looking for just the right one?"

Determined to defy Kettlecrack's demands to leave, Jaspin snapped, "If I have to!"

The older man looked at him with disbelief. "Are ye mad!?" He pointed once more to the dragons outside. "Ye think those beasts will tolerate you poking about their nests?" He suddenly got an idea that might persuade the boy to leave. "Ye heard what happens when a hunter gets between a sow and her piglets?" The expression on Jaspin's face confirmed that he had heard those stories. "Ye think a dragon's going to let ye go muddling about her nest full of eggs? It's too dangerous. Ye need to go back home right now!"

Jaspin looked aside at Bitequick. She was standing in a cleared space between the nests and fidgeting. She was obviously agitated about something but he couldn't guess what it might be. Worry started to gnaw on him that maybe the man was right. He'd told Herdis he wouldn't bother Bitterbug if she were tending a nest full of eggs. But he still needed to find her. That was the whole reason for being on the island.

That thought sparked a question. He turned his eyes to Kettlecrack and asked, "Why are you here?"

The man sputtered a moment, looking like he had been caught in a lie. Then he got angry. "That's none of yer business! Ye need to get on home to yer da before ye get in trouble!"

Jaspin had been around Snotlout long enough to recognize bluster when he saw it, even in an adult. Oddly, Snotlout usually knew when he'd been out done and would laugh it off. Kettlecrack, however, sounded a bit desperate. It was as if he feared being caught on Red Death Island more than Jaspin did. The boy felt he had a good reason to be there, but what was Kettlecrack doing there that could make him act so... guilty?

Thinking of how Hiccup often dealt with Snotlout's behavior and the sparring he had done with his training partner, he drew himself up to his full height and stared hard at Kettlecrack. The top of his head only came to the bridge of the man's nose and he weighed barely half what Kettlecrack did, but this was a contest of wills. He wouldn't let the man intimidate him, not when he was only trying to help Herdis and her dragon.

"I'm not leaving until I find her," he said calmly. He was rather proud of the steady tone of his voice.

Unfortunately his firm insistence only stoked the anger burning in Kettlecrack's chest. He needed this boy to leave before he discovered what he was doing and his stubborn attitude was provoking him in the worst way. Echoes of Kelda's derision and Stoick's refusal to see reason filled his mind until his hand was clenching the hilt of his sword tightly enough to hurt.

"Yer leaving now! Get on yer dragon and go before I-"

Kettlecrack had an instant's doubt as to what threat he could actually use on the boy. But the point became moot when thunder broke in heavy waves through the cavern. At least it sounded like thunder to the boy, who looked outside at the aging light of a sun sliding down the last quarter of the sky. The man knew better; he looked toward the back of the cave in dread. He felt that same miserable clenching in his gut when he knew his plans had once again been ruined.

A sudden gust of air came into the cave, rushing between the two Vikings and the undersized dragon. It pressed on them for several seconds as an enormous set of lungs down at the bottom of the nest drew a great breath.

Afterwards there was a moment of calm silence. Jaspin looked around in puzzlement, his quarrel with Kettlecrack forgotten. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Kettlecrack grumped. He was already trying to figure out how to salvage what was left of his plans. There was only one way that came to mind at that moment.

All thought among the living things within the cave ceased when a piercing roar blasted through the stone walls. Kettlecrack and Jaspin were forced to cover their ears while the Monstrous Nightmare cringed and stayed close to his rider. The Nadder wandering outside shook briefly, as though the sound had lit into her muscles and set them all ablaze for a single heartbeat.

As Jaspin slowly uncovered his ears and waited for the ringing in them to stop, he looked at Kettlecrack and his dragon. Both had their attention turned toward the back of the cave. He looked that way, seeing nothing but inky darkness. His heart was thudding so hard he could hear it in his ears. But the beats were too slow for as nervous as he was, as hard as he could feel it pounding in his chest.

Then he realized it was the mountain's heart he heard. It had to be; such a slow, heavy drumming could only belong to the smoky mountain of Red Death Island. Except that it was getting louder. And closer.

Kettlecrack knew he had to make a decision. He looked down at Jaspin, irritated beyond measure at what his mere presence had done to his plans. Never mind that his plans were incomplete and nearly unworkable besides. If the boy left now, Stoick or Hiccup would soon show. Or worse, both. "Should have left when ye had the chance, boy," he muttered. Jaspin didn't seem to hear him. The boy was fixated on the back of the cave. He wondered what the boy's reaction would be when he saw it.

Considering how Kettlecrack had reacted to it the first time, he suspected it wouldn't be good; panic and retreat, most likely. He'd been fortunate enough to have Grimjaws there to stop his intended attack. Now Kettlecrack was there and could possibly change the boy's reaction. But it wouldn't change the fact that Jaspin couldn't be trusted to leave.

"Now you'll have to stay here with Alrekr and me."

The words didn't register. They simply couldn't compete with what happened next. The mountain's heartbeat became the tangible impacts of the young Red Death's strokes against the stone shaft as it worked its way up. There wasn't enough room for it to spread its wings and fly out as the lesser dragons did. Each time a yak-sized foot gouged into the rock the tremor made its way into those waiting at the top of the shaft.

When the mountain's heart stopped there was another powerful gust of wind drawn into the cave. A low rumbling growl followed. The Nightmare at Kettlecrack's side responded, its own chittering screech sounding pitifully weak in comparison. Another series of ground shaking thumps rattled them, not as powerful as before. Then a large, blunt muzzle coalesced from the gloom around it. A vertically elongated face with large nostrils, protruding teeth and a pale, rounded forehorn pushed itself into the light, as though it was being birthed from the darkness.

Kettlecrack was actually amused for a second when he felt Jaspin standing next to, and slightly behind, him.

Three sets of eyes and an oversized lower jaw followed. The head seemed to know exactly where it wanted to go, for it guided the massive body out of the black depths and moved straight for the three relatively tiny bodies. Four, Kettlecrack could now see. The boy's Nadder had come forward at Alrekr's appearance and pressed nearly as close to the boy as Jaspin stood to Kettlecrack.

For the man, there was no such thing as complete familiarity with the imposing beast. He was silently grateful when the Red Death stopped its approach to glare at them all, its tail and hindquarters still indistinct in the gloom behind it. This was an important moment; Kettlecrack might be able to establish dominance over the situation, at least as far as the boy went. In the quiet moment that they were sized up by the Red Death, he held out his arm as though casually introducing one comrade to another.

"This is Alrekr. My new dragon. And Berk's greatest weapon."

Jaspin was clearly stunned. The boy hadn't seen the old one on the beach, dead or alive. Even though the new specimen was barely a third the size of the old one, it was big enough to inspire real terror. He stared, his mouth open and his breath coming in shallow pants. He whispered, as if afraid of spurring the beast into action. "That's... that's a..."

"That's right," Kettlecrack said, his pride blooming in a moment of recognition for what he'd been able to do with a creature that was scaring the boy stiff. "That's why I'm here. I'm training him. Once I have him in hand, Berk won't have to bother finding allies against the dragons. Or against anyone. We'll be able to rule anywhere we go. No one can stand against us."

Jaspin was still trying to deal with the sight of fireside stories come to life. The Red Death that they'd fought on the shores of this island had been the enemy in every telling, the unknown cause of centuries of fighting. No one seemed to know why its death had allowed the other dragons to become friends to Berk, but it struck him at that moment that another one living on the same island as the first had to mean trouble for the Vikings. No good could come of its existence.

Could it?

The scene held; no one moved. The terror at the unbelievable size of this new dragon began to ebb. The Red Death stood over them, its many eyes taking them in while it continued to draw deep breaths. The sound of its breathing within the cave was like storm winds that rose and fell within seconds.

Jaspin nearly felt like he might be able to move safely. To do what, he didn't know. But that's when the Red Death chose to lower its head and bring its snout close to them. Fright took hold again and he tried to back away quickly. Kettlecrack's large hands planted themselves on his shoulders and held him solidly in place, elevating his fear to a near panic.

"Stop struggling, fool," the man snapped. "It just wants a look at ye, that's all!" Neither of them had any idea how close to the truth he really was. Still Jaspin struggled until Kettlecrack gave him a hard shake that rattled his teeth and broke his concentration on the towering monster before them. "Hey! Hold still and watch me!" Jaspin gawped at him, not understanding. "Just stand there, don't move. Ye hear me?" The boy only stared. He gave him another shake and the words finally seemed to catch hold. "Hear me? Just stay here and watch me!"

When Kettlecrack released his shoulders he didn't move. He could only stare, struck dumb as the older man calmly smoothed his triple braided beard and walked toward certain death. As he got closer, to his astonishment, the enormous snout descended until the lower jaw was directly on the ground, the forequarters hunched like a cat stalking a mouse.

Without Kettlecrack holding him in place, Jaspin felt like he needed to run. But the man's calm approach to the huge dragon arrested him. What was his intention? What was he about to see? He wanted to flee yet he also wanted to see if Kettlecrack could really do what Jaspin was quickly realizing he intended to do. Was it possible? Could a Viking really tame the largest of dragons?

And then it happened. Kettlecrack's heavy hand reached up and firmly patted the Red Death on the edge of one gaping nostril. For good measure, the man looked back at him and ran his hand back and forth across the thinly scaled skin and smiled. Fear seemed to leak out of his bones as the man remained uneaten. A short blast of heated air puffed from those nostrils, skewing the man's horned helmet and filling the air with the heavy odor of heated flesh. A fainter tinge of decay followed.

There was an odd skittery screech from his left. It was Bitequick and she seemed as deeply effected by events as Jaspin. She was shuffling constantly, flaring her wings and bobbing her head. She eased away from him and nervously stepped closer to where Kettlecrack stood. Jaspin raised his hand, wanting to stop her but still too fearful to act. Her strange calls continued. They were answered by Kettlecrack's Nightmare, who seemed moved by her display.

Still some distance from the great head, she stopped. Kettlecrack was watching her as closely as Jaspin and the Red Death. Bitequick leaned forward and began making a throaty retching sound. Several partially digested fish landed with a splat and sent thin tendrils of steam upward. Jaspin was still anchored to the spot by the bizarre situation as the man stepped away from the Red Death's snout and came to the slimy pile in front of the Nadder. Bitequick only watched as he chose the largest fish. He grunted as he wrestled to get a grip on the slippery mass. He ended up having to cradle it in both arms as he walked back to the enormous snout.

The jaws parted, the fish went in, the jaws closed. A low thrumming filled his ears, like Thor's hammer beating the walls of the cave. Bitequick seemed to faintly echo the sound. The Nadder was watching the Red Death closely, as though she were as stunned by Kettlecrack's display as Jaspin.

When the great head rose and the beast settled itself to stare at them, Jaspin began to wonder if the dragon before him was actually related to the terrifying monster from the fireside stories. It certainly didn't seem to act like it. Kettlecrack came back to where he stood, swaggering slightly.

For a moment calm settled throughout the cave. Jaspin felt a glimmer of wonder at what he'd seen, what might be possible. Kettlecrack had said some things, made some claims to which he hadn't paid close attention. Now he had questions about this huge dragon and what the man intended. He didn't get to ask them, however.

With a thundering snort the Red Death lowered its head again. This time it moved forward toward Jaspin, the bulk of its body now separating him from Bitequick.

The sight of the huge beast coming directly toward him like that reignited his panic. Seriously fearing for his safety, he tried to take off running the opposite direction. Once more, Kettlecrack caught hold of him and held him in place. The familiarity and control the older man seemed to have with the Red Death evaporated from his mind as the massive jaws overflowing with teeth closed in on him. He did not want to be so close to it, no matter what its intentions might be.

"Hold still, I tell ye! He wants to see ye!"

Jaspin twisted in his grip. "I don't care! Let go!"

Fighting against Kettlecrack's hold on him, Jaspin lost sight of the imposing creature. He grunted with the effort of getting loose, laying hands on the man's arm and trying to pull himself out of his grip. When he twisted again, ignoring the man's low cursing, he spun around enough to see the massive lower jaw almost close enough to touch. The teeth that sprouted from it were no doubt as sharp as those of his own dragon. But Bitequick had never thrust those natural weapons so close to him until they had come to know each other enough for him to trust such movements. Jaspin didn't truly know anything about this immense dragon and he certainly didn't trust it. For all he knew Kettlecrack might intend to...

Some nameless fear ripped through his muscles, the whole situation immediately feeling far more dangerous than it had moments ago. He swept his arm against Kettlecrack's hand and twisted savagely, yelling wordlessly as he finally broke free. He stumbled backward, nearly falling. With one hand on the ground and one on the hilt of his sword, he tried to move away from the huge snout, only to see the head had turned and tilted to bring three independently moving eyes around to study him. An icy feeling swept from his stomach to his limbs and he froze, certain any movement would mean his death.

Angry at the defiance a child was showing him, Kettlecrack glared at the boy crouching off balance on the ground. Whatever had spooked him was enough to convince him that his secret would not be kept if the boy left. He had no idea how he would keep him there while he worked out how to train Alrekr, but that was a question for later. Right now he needed to assert his dominance over the kid. Glancing at the inquisitive dragon staring at Jaspin, he moved calmly until he was standing between him and the entrance of the cave.

"I told ye, yer not leaving."

This time the boy heard him. His reaction was not what Kettlecrack had hoped.

Recognizing the statement for what it was, Jaspin looked up briefly at the man standing between him and his escape. He turned his attention quickly back to the Red Death as it snorted again, sniffing at him from little more than an arm's length away. The boy felt pinned and didn't know which threat to pay more attention to. He scrambled to his feet, lurching off balance for an instant. His movement carried him close to Kettlecrack and the man pushed him away, back toward the looming mouth. Not wanting to get closer to the unknown dragon, he staggered sideways away from both. He looked around for Bitequick but she was now on the other side of the Red Death's towering body.

Kettlecrack sized up the boy and his state. He was at his most vulnerable, confused and frightened. He glanced again at the sword hanging from his hip. That was a threat he could not allow. He took a step toward the boy and held out his hand.

"The sword. I'll have it now."

Jaspin was paralyzed, confused as to how the threat of a dragon that might mean him harm and the inexplicable statement Kettlecrack had made had turned back to his grandfather's sword. Surely that couldn't be what this was about. But as worried as he was about the two threats that faced him, the idea of handing over the sword started a flame in his belly that slowly grew. He had no intention of staying, or of getting closer to the Red Death, and he certainly would not be giving his new sword to anyone. He especially would not be handing it over to a man who was acting like he knew he was doing something wrong by being there with a living Red Death.

He thought furiously, trying to come up with a way out of his unexpected dilemma. He needed help, he knew. And there was someone there he knew he could count on for help when he needed it.

"Bitequick!"

A scowl creased Kettlecrack's brow as he realized the boy would not be easily cowed. But the moment of tension passed as no response came. Jaspin's concern showed plainly on his face as his plea went unanswered. He called again for his dragon. Kettlecrack glanced to the other side of the Red Death's huge body, able to see where the Nadder stood from his vantage. The smaller dragon seemed enthralled with Alrekr, hovering around it while not getting any nearer to its head than her rider did. He could hear her sniffing constantly and see her wings and tail twitching. Kettlecrack eyed the boy again.

"Ye won't need it while yer here and I won't have ye getting any stupid ideas." He held out his hand, trying to impress the lad with his fierce determination.

The word rose up in his mind, clear and powerful. Jaspin intended to speak it as he heard it in his thoughts. But the quiet sound of his hesitant response hurt his own resolve as much as it seemed to bolster Kettlecrack's.

"No."

Jaspin cringed immediately at the sound of his own voice. He couldn't hand over his sword, he wouldn't! He didn't have to do anything Kettlecrack said. But he was alone in a cave a long way from home, unsure of himself and his abilities in this strange situation. He had a good sword and some training and he had his Nadder with him. This wasn't a fight with swords, though. It was an argument _for_ a sword. And Bitequick was out of his sight and not responding to him.

Kettlecrack sensed the weakness in the boy and stepped closer again. Jaspin backed a step away, getting closer to the wall of the cave.

"There's no need for this. I'll not hurt ye. It's for yer own good. Hand it over."

The boy was torn. He truly didn't know which way to go. He did not want to give up the sword, his hand unconsciously gripping its hilt possessively. Without Bitequick to help him escape this place and this person, however, he felt helpless. The thought of his dragon prompted him to call out once again. "Bitequick, help!"

That pushed Kettlecrack a bit too far. He strode forward with all the authority he could muster and reached out for the boy. Jaspin backed up as quickly as he could, stumbling over the uneven floor of the dark cave until his shoulders struck stone and he could go no further. His hand pulled at his sword, revealing a portion of the bright blade in the dim light. Doubt stopped the motion from going any further. Kettlecrack saw the glint of steel, the small portion of the blade exposed and checked his stride. He, like Jaspin, had no expectation of this turning into an actual fight.

Such a naked threat could not be ignored, though.

Kettlecrack saw the boy's hesitation, the real fear mixed with anger. His opportunity to take control would slip away in a breath if Jaspin pulled the blade free. His own hand was on his sword, a natural response to the threat of a drawn weapon. He clenched the hilt hard, feeling the sore spots on his palm and the throbbing pain from his hip. With a grimace, he took the final step and committed himself.

Jaspin was caught up in flickering memories of Snotlout's training, in words of advice from Mord. It wasn't a fight, though! Kettlecrack's hand was on his sword but this wasn't a fight. His own hand trembled, undecided on sheathing the blade in submission or withdrawing it and changing the whole situation into something he didn't want. When the man backed him against the wall and reached out for him he acted on pure impulse. He let go of his sword's hilt and held out both hands to keep Kettlecrack away.

The bruising grip Kettlecrack applied to his upper arms brought out another automatic response. He struggled, trying pointlessly to get free. He knew the man would take his sword away, would bring him toward the Red Death. Panic dove into his heart and kicked his lungs. The breath that came out was a loud, fearful cry. "NO, STOP!"

It was that sound that changed everything.

Bitequick, gradually sliding into the confusing morass of raw, base desires, knew nothing of her rider's struggle. She was trying to deal with her body's new sensations. The scents of nesting dragons was intoxicating yet disturbing. More, the palpable effect of the huge Kin within the cave was spurring a protective reaction she could not understand and was almost powerless against.

When Jaspin's anguished cry reached her, it was as if she'd been awoken from a troubled sleep. The shock of that distressed shout ripped away the strange cloud of unwanted thoughts and she saw clearly for the first time since entering the cave. She instantly recognized the enemy before her. That, coupled with the sound of her rider's fearful call, spurred her into immediate action.

With an enraged screech, she shot a stream of her hottest fire directly at the huge Kin's face. It wouldn't injure her enemy, only distract him. She used that moment to launch herself into vigorous flight. The sound had come from inside the cave so she knew exactly where to go. Turning almost as soon as she was airborne, she cut an arc around the massive snout of the Gatherer. That immense Kin reared back in anger, giving a terrible roar in answer to her attack.

Before her she saw her rider and another preytooth locked in desperate physical conflict. Bitequick knew she was endangering the Kin truce with her actions but refused to allow her bond partner to be injured by another preytooth. She roared angrily at the larger one holding her rider as she landed. Her tail came up, her spikes flared and she charged with wings extended.

Jaspin heard the familiar sound of his dragon's voice. He stopped struggling for a moment and craned his head around the bulk of Kettlecrack's thick arm and chest. He was immensely grateful to see her. Not only had she finally responded to him, but she was obviously going to help protect him. He relaxed slightly, anticipating Kettlecrack's release of his arms when he realized he had another, far more dangerous threat approaching him from behind. As he expected, the man turned, allowing Jaspin to see her clearly.

It was over in a blink. One instant Bitequick was running toward them and the next there was an explosive movement from the huge dragon she'd come around. One giant foreleg, one massive paw and several immense claws swept around with unbelievable speed and slammed into her so hard she was lifted off her feet. Her legs, wings and tail flailed uncontrollably as she hurled sideways into the wall of the cave. The sound of breaking bones and ripping scales was barely detectable over the resounding echo of the Red Death's furious roar.

The body slid down the wall and landed motionless against a small pile of rocks. Limbs and neck were twisted to extremes but it was the awful sight of her horribly distorted chest that told of her death. The crushing blow had deformed the whole of her trunk. Below her on the floor lay two broken teeth and the shattered end of one of the spikes from her neck frill.

For a time, both were frozen, stunned by what had happened. Jaspin wanted to see his dragon get up but the sight of her mangled body made it obvious such hopes were in vain. Kettlecrack kept his eyes on Alrekr, fearful the attack would spur the beast into a vengeful response.

The Red Death stared at the dead Nadder a moment. It then growled low and heavy, turning toward the other occupants in his cave. It brought its head down, staring balefully at the two entangled Vikings. This made Kettlecrack take a cautious step back, which in turn brought Jaspin out of his stupor.

The boy wanted to go to his friend, despite knowing there was nothing to be done. When he writhed against Kettlecrack's hold, the man tightened his grip. "Stop moving, idiot, or we might be next!"

Jaspin looked up at his antagonist, then followed that one's worried gaze to the Red Death. Three hateful eyes looked them over while a continuous growl rumbled into the floor. Against the memory of the fireside stories, his hatred of the mountainous creature before them grew. It was the enemy. But there was something else he remembered that fanned a hotter rage in his chest. "You!"

Kettlecrack turned an annoyed look toward the boy. "See what ye done, boy?" He shook Jaspin hard, tightening his grip further. "Ye and that stupid dragon of yers gone and riled him up! What ye trying to do, get us all killed? Ruin all my work?"

The anger was filling Jaspin, leaving no room for anything else. It showed on his face, making Kettlecrack hesitate. "You did this! You made him do it! You killed her!"

The relatively calm, quiet fisherman's son was gone. In his place was someone Kettlecrack hadn't seen before. The familiar face contorted in fury. Whatever anguish had been there over the loss of the dragon had burned away. He had no idea how he was going to get him calmed down, let alone safely out of the way. His own anger at the damage this child had nearly done to his plans rose up to match his. He leaned forward, pressing his face into the boy's and shouting, "Shut up ye miserable-"

It never occurred to him that his triple braided beard could be a liability. Not until the seething boy in his grip opened his mouth, jerked forward and bit into one of the braids. When the kid leaned back and twisted his head, the pain was enough to make him release his arms and try to grab his head or ears; anything to get him to let go.

As soon as Kettlecrack let go, so did Jaspin. The man's relief was short lived as he heard the boy's next move. He didn't see it, but he felt the effects of it. There was the soft sound of metal singing; a blade being drawn quickly from its scabbard. It was followed by the gentle hiss of a sword swinging hard. That was when he felt a lighter tug on his chin. Without thinking he stepped back from where the boy stood and they both looked down at the three severed braids lying on the stone floor.

Kettlecrack's temper finally got the better of him. He shouted, ripping his own sword free of its sheath. For an instant he considered his weakness as a warrior. He'd spent more time trying to kill dragons than practicing his sword play, despite what Mord drummed into all capable fighters in Berk. He'd never been that good with a sword and had almost always lost the practice sessions, no matter who he faced as an opponent.

But Jaspin was a slim boy with a snitched sword who'd awoken his wrath. He would show this kid what happened when he drew steel against a bigger, angrier man.

He swung, hard. He put every bit of his strength into the stroke, expecting Jaspin to block. When he did, he would knock that pretty sword right out of the kid's hands and that would be the end of it.

Except it wasn't. The boy pulled back slightly, letting his stroke go unhindered. There was another flash, quicker, and a bright burning pain suddenly lay across his upper arm. Kettlecrack stepped back, looking at his arm. A short slit in his tunic's sleeve showed the narrow cut the boy had given him. There was another flash, dim light from outside the cave licking up the polished length of the kid's weapon. He barely got his own sword positioned for a block of his own. The bright, vibrant sound of clashing steel echoed through the cave and put a shock into the man's blood.

This kid was trying to kill him!

Kettlecrack blocked again, a vicious slash across his middle that was followed by another cut whipping toward his head. He took two large steps back, surprised at the strength and purpose behind the boy's swings. He hesitated; he didn't want to hurt the boy but he wasn't about to let him slice him up, either. Especially not over a dragon that could easily be replaced.

The room he gained by backing off was taken up by the determined Jaspin. Kettlecrack had to block two more strokes, aimed at his legs and his middle. His anger was still rolling hot but he was more annoyed with this kid swatting at him with a real sword like they were at practice. Another slash came at his head and he jerked back with a curse.

He barely had time to register it but Jaspin was swinging that large blade like it weighed nothing. And his own rusty skills were barely sufficient to keep its hungry looking edge from taking bites out of him. Jaspin pressed again and again, cutting high and low, sometimes thrusting directly at him. Neither had a shield so he could only parry and retreat. His temper began rising again at how hard he needed to work to keep the kid off him.

"Oy! Stop it!"

Jaspin ignored him, moving around to one side and trying to take his sword arm off.

"I said stop it!"

A low cut got past his defense and left a nasty wound in his thigh. He shouted in pain and swung blindly in retaliation. He accomplished nothing. Jaspin had moved again.

"Stop it ye-" Another slash came in and he blocked it, answering with a powerful cut of his own. Jaspin parried with some ease but he didn't let up this time. He would batter this child's defenses down until he dropped that wickedly sharp sword of his. The practice he'd had long ago came to him and he went after the boy. Slashing and cutting, he stepped after his target. The sound of their swords meeting set the cave to ringing.

Alrekr almost got him killed.

A low grunt as loud as thunder in the confines of the cave made him look around in spite of himself. He saw the huge dragon watching their fight, unmoving. Beyond him was Grimjaws, also still as stone and only watching. In that unguarded moment Jaspin connected with another cut high on his upper arm. Blind rage moved his sword in an ungainly arc. It wasn't a move anyone taught, it wasn't even meant as an attack or a defense. It was nothing more than a thoughtless reaction, an unguided flailing of an injured limb. That was probably why the boy didn't expect it. And because he didn't expect it, he didn't block it.

Jaspin understood his mistake as soon as he made it. Kettlecrack's swing had been fast and powerful but that shouldn't have mattered. Mord had given him the basics in dealing with opponents who were quicker and stronger than him. His problem was that, as angry and distraught as he felt, he'd begun expecting Kettlecrack to do certain things. Mord had told him more than once; 'Don't think you know who you're fighting, even if you _do_ know them.' Kettlecrack's angry slash hadn't really been an attack; it had been a temperamental fit given motion.

The first impression Jaspin had was that Kettlecrack must have had his blade turned sideways. The impact of the sword's tip against his throat left a sharp sting that quickly faded but it was the blunt force of the blow that left a throbbing ache behind. Already angry, he swore to himself that he wouldn't make that mistake again. Seeing Kettlecrack's sword still moving away in its ponderous arc, he stepped forward to press his attack again.

Something was wrong, though. His breath suddenly rattled and bubbled and he simultaneously became aware of warmth creeping down his neck. As he reached up to touch a warm stickiness his throat unexpectedly filled and he coughed. The hoarse hacking sound he made alarmed him, though not as much as the bright red spray that flew from his lips. He looked down at his fingertips to see them also coated with his blood.

Even then it didn't fully register what had happened until he looked up at Kettlecrack. The man stood, all anger vanished and his sword dangling loosely in his hand. The look of horror on his face, the shake of his head; it was real. He'd lost the fight and now...

Jaspin shivered, a chill feeling swiftly working through his body. He tried to speak and coughed again, spewing his life's blood onto the floor of the cave.

"WHY WOULDN'T YE STOP?!" Kettlecrack's shriek filled him with panic. He was injured and he didn't know what to do. He pressed his hand to his throat and felt the raw anger of the open wound and the warm fluid dribbling over his fingers. He heard Kettlecrack still yelling at him, blaming him for what had happened.

He'd never meant to get into a fight, never meant to take Bitequick anywhere dangerous. And now he was on his knees, feeling a tingling weakness creeping over him as he fought for breath. He coughed again, painting the stone and his left hand. He leaned back, lifted his blood spattered hand and saw the strange blank outline of his hand on the ground. His lungs were screaming but he couldn't make a sound. It was all a mistake; he'd only come to help Herdis.

Jaspin retched, his body starting to shake. Real fear burned in his veins in place of the blood he'd lost. He tried to stand but could barely raise his head. He started to fall forward, unable to keep himself up.

Kettlecrack was there, next to him. The man caught him and eased him onto his back. The look on his face was strange, almost like he was trapped between guilt and envy. "Hush now, boy. It's all right. Ye fought a good fight. The Valkyries will be for ye soon. This is a warrior's death, don't you worry." The missing braids of his beard gave his face a bizarre, lopsided look. He lifted Jaspin's hand and held it tight.

"It's Odin's halls for ye, for certain."

Lying on his back helped a little but he still couldn't breathe and his coughing was getting weaker. He tried to speak, to tell him to ask his father's forgiveness for sneaking off and for leaving without saying goodbye. He could only take short, ragged gasps. Gray started to seep into the edges of his vision.

"My father will greet ye when ye get there."

Jaspin's lungs were burning like fire but he was feeling it less and less as the moments passed. A thousand thoughts rushed through his mind and he could express none of them. Beneath them all was the sorrow of having seen the bright, happy creature he'd befriended lying lifeless, her graceful body battered and still. He'd wondered once, early on, if he would outlive Bitequick or if she would still be dancing among the clouds after he was gone. He supposed he now had his answer.

His mind was wandering and the cave was getting darker. Kettlecrack's voice was dim and hollow, distorted by echoes and overlaid with the diminishing sound of raspy choking. A sense of peace stole into his heart and his limbs grew heavy, like they were made of stone. He heard one last sentence before he closed his eyes and heaved one final time.

"Tell him I'll be coming soon."

* * *

He sat in the dark, listening to the waves as the tide said its farewells to the stony shore. A cool wind played across his face as though trying to comfort him. Its soft sighs and gentle whispers could do nothing to lift the burden from his heart, though. Faintly outlined by the moonless night sky, Kettlecrack stared out into the watery emptiness where Jaspin had disappeared and wondered where he'd gone wrong.

Maybe he shouldn't have accepted a runt of a dragon to train. Perhaps he should have been more forceful in how he trained it, once he'd gotten it. Or maybe he should have just gone on a raid of his own, once he had Grimjaws firing targets on his command. He just didn't know. Of course having the boy show up unannounced and unwanted had pushed things to a breaking point, but surely there could have been some better way to handle it than...

He shook his head miserably. He'd always had the worst luck. It never seemed to matter how hard he tried or how well he planned; something would interfere. Now his best plans to date were ruined and he couldn't see how it had happened. Whatever his misstep had been, it brought him to sit alone on a cold rocky beach and consider his situation.

He'd done the best he could for the boy, no thanks to Grimjaws. The unreliable beast had balked at carrying the body down to the beach, as though there was any difference between a dead boar and a dead Viking. The dragon had finally, reluctantly carried Kettlecrack and his burden down to the water's edge. It had only watched as he laboriously cobbled together a raft from the remaining scorched timbers of Berk's old fleet. Once he'd secured Jaspin and the meager offerings he could send with him and pushed the whole affair out into the receding tide, the Nightmare had refused the 'kill' command that would light the raft and its contents for a passable Viking funeral. The stunted dragon had growled at him and backed away when Kettlecrack gave the command. Aggressively insisting on obedience had only driven the runt into flight.

So instead of a proper send off, Jaspin had quietly slipped away with the outgoing tide. With his luck, Kettlecrack wondered if he would see the boy again as a draugr, come back to take his revenge. That would certainly be as unfair as everything else that had happened. Granted, the sword had been a terrible temptation. He'd even swapped with him, laying his own blade on Jaspin's chest with his cold hands holding it in place. As he'd gotten the raft out into waist high waters, however, a nagging fear of the consequences finally convinced him to take his own sword back and lay the beautifully made weapon with its owner. To amend for his temporary bad judgment, he'd even dug out his last two half pennies and placed them on Jaspin's forehead. He had a feeling he wouldn't be needing them any time soon.

Now Kettlecrack waited for the dawn and whatever new difficulties it would bring. He was cold, soaking wet from the chest down and his dragon was off having a sulk. He had little food left and no good way to get back up to the top of the mountain where he'd left it. He was still no closer to figuring out a way to bend Alrekr to his will. And worst of all he now had a fellow villager's blood on his hands.

It hadn't been his fault. It had been an accident. That wouldn't matter, though. If it was ever known, he would be seen as a murderer and every chance of dying a glorious warrior's death would be gone. The only good that had come of his actions was that Jaspin had been sent where Kettlecrack wanted so badly to go. He would have to hold on to that as he went forward. And he would have to go forward, somehow. Even with everything ruined, there was no other choice. No matter what damage had been done, Kettlecrack still had to pursue his goals.

He raised his face to the first faint sign of daybreak creeping across the eastern sky and looked for any sign of his dragon.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2014

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN**: I am sorry for this. I looked for a better way, a nicer way. Nothing seemed right. Sometimes you're only left with the consequences for which you've prepared.


	31. Tears of Blue Fire

.

Broken

Chapter 31: Tears of blue fire

Ingifast rose to a gray morning. It wasn't just the overcast sky that covered his heart in deep shadows. Nor was it the familiar ache behind his eyes from drinking too much ale the night before. It was the memory of the previous day's council. As one of the oldest members of the village he was often privy to Stoick's important decisions. But the news the chief had given them yesterday had dimmed much of the light that had shone on Berk the last six months.

He stared at the rafters a while, reluctant to move from under his blanket and bed furs. As many recent springs had, this one had him regretting taking his shack's door off to make his work table outside. When he'd been a younger man he'd always relished waking to brisk mornings and the rattling calls of the gulls. With age came stiff joints and less energy and an occasional desire to throttle the birds that woke him from a sound sleep.

It was easier to think about his age than to consider the chief's warning that Berk needed to face down another Red Death. That thought, all by itself, could drain the color out of everything.

Ingifast hadn't complained after the battle when he realized he would be building new ships until he either fell over dead doing it or got too weak and was forced to spend his last days in the great hall being cared for by Freya and her daughters. What good was a shipwright if his village no longer needed ships built? Granted, having to rebuild an entire fleet was not how he wanted to spend his elder years. But he was being useful and still able to do what he loved most. Perhaps he would even take on a few more apprentices this year. Stoick had been after him the last few summers to get more helpers. The few men who helped him now could only work on one ship at a time. If he started training a few more, perhaps they could build two ships at once.

Perhaps, he thought sardonically, I should work on getting my creaky bones out of bed before I worry about apprentices.

He swung his feet to the floor, shivering slightly in the cool air. His head throbbed harder as he moved around and he stifled a curse. He quickly set aside his sleeping tunic and drew on his work clothes. His bedside bowl was full of fresh seawater, brought in the night before. He scrubbed his face and neck with the cool brine and then dunked his head in to slick back his thick grey hair. A few minutes were spent bringing the fire in his tiny hearth back to life and heating water for some tea. He glanced out his open door a few times during his chores but saw nothing amiss.

It wasn't until he'd stepped outside, steaming mug in one hand and a large chunk of yesterday's batch of brown bread in the other, that he realized something was off. He gazed at the lumpy sky, wishing for a bright sun to warm him up. A glance up and down the beach found no dragons lounging on the shore to interfere with his work. Finally he looked out at the water to make sure Rorik was still at anchor.

Ingifast didn't hear his mug shatter or notice his breakfast was crushed under his boot as he staggered toward the water, searching desperately for a sign of his charge.

"Where, where?" His eyes swept the gentle waves and found nothing. Rorik was gone. Next he turned to the anchor, a stout pole sunk deep into the beach beyond the high tide line. The line that had been tied to Rorik was slack, its end dancing gently at the ocean's threshold. He rushed to it, grabbed it up and pulled. Had it broken? Had it come loose? Ingifast doubted his knots had given way but that didn't mean-

The rope resisted at first and then stubbornly refused to move. He pulled harder and harder but it was no use. He knew then he could never retrieve the rope. It was still attached to the ship.

Rorik had sunk.

"No," he whispered. He let the rope fall and staggered back a step.

He'd never lost a ship under his care. Rorik's encounter with the rogue wave was the closest he'd ever come since he finished his own apprenticeship. He groaned and sank to the pebbly shore, the knees of his trousers getting soaked in the water.

How would he tell Stoick? Worse, how would he tell Hogknee? He groaned at his misfortune.

Eventually he pushed himself up and made his unsteady way toward the great hall and the chief's house. The gray morning had turned black.

* * *

Stoick was doing something he hardly ever did as chief of Berk; he was brooding.

The senior Haddock sat on his front steps and stared at the endless layer of sullen clouds hiding the sun from his village. It reflected his mood all too well. Seldom had he felt so impotent, so conflicted.

The morning had started off badly. He hadn't been able to eat breakfast; his appetite was gone. His son and the Fury were no better off, sitting disconsolate by the cold hearth. He doubted they had slept much more than he had. No words were said between the three of them. Nothing seemed appropriate. Finally the dragon had grumbled one of his special words that Hiccup could understand and they left, taking off into a sky that didn't especially look to want them.

Left to consider his failure as a decision maker, Stoick couldn't find the will to walk down to the gathering circle or to Gobber's smithy or any of the other places he would usually visit any given morning. He just sat, considering the lengthy discussion that had passed between him and his council the day before.

'What _can_ we do?' Those were the words that were uttered over and over. And in the end, no good answer ever came. The problems were many: not enough ships to carry all of Berk's warriors, no clear idea of how to fight an enemy that had already defeated them at their strongest and no real proof such a threat existed despite Hiccup's word and Stoick's opinion.

It had seemed less complicated when he'd treated with the Night Fury. He'd basically sworn to that being that Berk would stand together to deal with the threat. The question of 'how' hadn't entered his mind then. Once it had been asked, he'd found himself without a useful answer.

The only possibility that had offered any hope had been difficult to even discuss. It had been his brother who had broached the subject. Spitelout had gazed at him with respectful sympathy and asked, "Would Hiccup be willing to... to try his luck again?"

Everyone in the council had been on that beach. They remembered fearing themselves lost, seeing themselves hopelessly outmatched. They'd all seen Hiccup's incredible battle, his amazing command of the Night Fury. They'd all waited through his recovery, understanding how terribly close he'd come to dying. If a weapon works once against an adversary, it should work again. But if that weapon is a beloved hero and future leader living with the crippling scars of that terrifying encounter, who could encourage such risk a second time?

It had been Gobber who'd voiced what everyone was ashamed to be thinking. "Send a young lad alone against a monster to protect a whole village of battle-hardened Vikings? We barely got away with that once. I'd not suggest trying it again."

Spitelout, ever the pragmatist in council, could only half-heartedly defend his question with, "But he and that dragon of his, they're so... powerful together." He'd looked to Stoick, his expression showing how much he hated to mention the choice.

"Aye," Gobber had responded. "And if they fail this time we lose a lot more than just Hiccup and his dragon, don't we?"

That statement had silenced the hall for nearly a minute. It was Mord who'd finally broken it with the ultimate, unanswered question. "Then what _can_ we do?"

Vikings are stubborn and do not fear battle. But no amount of arguing or scheming could answer the question to their collective satisfaction. And certainly not to Stoick's.

So he sat on his front steps and wondered if it would rain. He wondered if Hiccup was right about telling the rest of Berk about the dragons. Mostly he wondered if Berk would survive new rounds of dragon raids.

Stoick wasn't surprised when a familiar form came stumping around the gathering circle down the hill and headed for his house. Gobber often made the laborious climb to the chief's house to visit if he didn't have work waiting on him in the morning. He noticed there was a small wrapped bundle in his good hand.

"Oy Stoick!" The smith's greeting was just a bit forced but his smile seemed genuine. While he wasn't displeased to see his friend he could summon no more than a raised hand for a reply. When Gobber stopped at the steps to stare at him, he looked the younger man in the eye for an instant. Several moments of silence passed before the blonde demanded, "Aw, cheer up ye big lummox! I got ye a honey cake from Styrkar and Tola." He flipped the contents of his hand to toss back the edge of the thin linen wrapping the cake and held it out.

Stoick gave a wan smile but shook his head.

Gobber looked annoyed but Stoick's keen eyes saw the hint of mischief in them as well. The smith confirmed it by declaring, "Look, either take the cake and eat it or I'll cram it in yer helmet and mash it on yer head!"

Now an honest smile touched the corners of his mouth. The burly smith had made a similar threat long ago in their youth and had the bad judgment to carry it out. The ensuing fight ended up costing the Haddock household several coins as they somehow wound up in a sheep pen hurling ewes at one another. It had taken many years for the parties involved to see the humor in the event but it had definitely been a memorable fight.

That Gobber was evoking the memory of their worst, and best, fight was a sign that he understood how his chief was feeling. That meant a lot to Stoick. It pleased him to see his friend smile as he accepted the cake. He didn't eat it, though. He could only stare at it, suddenly thinking of it as food and therefore a target of ensnared dragons trying to feed another gigantic monster.

'What _can_ we do?'

Stoick hitched a breath to say something, perhaps something unwise. There were thoughts in his head he hated keeping from his friend. They were thoughts that must surely factor in the solution to ridding themselves of their newest threat. But would speaking them help Berk or hurt it? He couldn't be certain.

He looked up at Gobber, the helplessness of it all plain in his voice. "I hate not knowing what to do."

His friend nodded knowingly. Doubtless that was why he'd come wobbling up the hill with a honey cake in his hand. He was one of the very few people the chief would ever let hear such words. As much as he leaned on the master smith for advice he was still surprised at Gobber's softly spoken reply. "Aye. But I think ye _do_ know what to do."

Stoick stared at him a second, uncertain what he meant. Then he remembered. The smith had advocated sending a ship to Red Death Island to determine if it was, in fact, once again hosting an enormous monster. He hadn't seen a need for it, given that he'd spoken directly to one of the dragons that used to live there about it. Of course he couldn't spell out his position quite so plainly to the council. Not yet.

In fact, when he tried to imagine finally explaining the new knowledge Hiccup and the Night Fury had given him to his advisors he got an uncomfortable twisting sensation in his gut. He had serious doubts they would believe him. Proof would be needed and his son would be put on the spot. How would that go? How would the village see their chief after they had learned he kept critical information from them?

What if they weren't able to get rid of it? What if things got worse this time?

What if Hiccup and his dragon really were the only way they could defend themselves?

Questions began to overtake him and he could only stare at his empty fist, tightly curled upon his knee. Gobber broke him out of it. "Ach, I know ye trust Hiccup. And I know he trusts his black beastie. But this is too important to go on the lad's intuition."

Stoick shook his head. "No, Gobber, it's not that. It's just..." He stopped himself, torn over letting his best friend know the source of his information. Before he could decide, he realized there was someone else coming up the hill. It took him a second to recognize Ingifast with his head down and his shoulders slumped. The shipwright had never looked so... defeated before. Not even after Rorik had been towed back to the docks with damage to her hull.

Gobber turned to see what had caught Stoick's attention and frowned slightly at the sight. They waited together as the older man finally reached them and raised his eyes to the chief. Stoick knew some dreadful news was coming but he couldn't figure out why Ingifast would be bringing it to him.

Seeing the old man look so wretched bothered him. Without even stopping to think about it, he straightened and stared hard at the shipwright. Giving his voice a touch of command he asked, "What news, Ingifast?"

It had the desired effect. The grey haired fellow also straightened his shoulders and met his leader's eyes. But there was no strength in his voice as he hesitantly said, "I'm sorry, Stoick. I failed." He clenched his bristly jaw, fighting for control of himself. "Rorik's gone."

* * *

There was more wrong at the beach than just a missing ship. Ingifast said he'd been out late, wanting to celebrate in the hall as he usually did upon finishing an important job. He admitted he'd actually been drinking more than usual to help him cope with the chief's disturbing news. The sliver of moon showing that night had made his journey home a little harder than usual, coupled with all the ale he'd had. The old man assumed that was the only reason he didn't notice anything unusual at the time.

But there was something that bothered Stoick as he looked out to where the rope supposedly was tied to the sunken Rorik. He stared out at the water, trying to understand this strange turn of events. It was hard to concentrate with Ingifast muttering about how he was certain he hadn't damaged any of the seams as he'd done his work. Gobber wasn't much help, as he was looking around at the beach and picking up small bits of debris.

There was little to be done, at any rate. Over the generations Berk had tried raising ships sunk in shallow water and never found a way to accomplish it. Once the ocean claimed a vessel it refused to release it. The wreck would have to be marked to keep other ships coming to the beach for work from tangling on Rorik's mast.

Stoick blinked as he realized what was wrong. Where was Rorik's mast?

"Ingifast, did you take down the mast?"

Reddened eyes turned to his. "No. No need. She was nearly ready to sail."

The chief pointed out across the water. "Then where did it go?"

Both men were surprised when Gobber spoke up next, walking unevenly over the stony beach. "Here." He held up a blackened object as he approached them. "Rorik didn't sink, Ingifast. She was burned."

"Burned?" Stoick couldn't figure out how Gobber would know such a thing. As the smith took out his small work knife and began scraping the lump he carried Ingifast's gravelly voice echoed his own.

"Burned!" The shipwright's misery vanished as he considered the nature of the younger man's statement. Whoever had burned Rorik had essentially attacked Ingifast. Hogknee, too, would doubtless share his wrath against the culprit. "Who?"

Gobber raised the darkened edge of his knife to his nose and sniffed. As he stood before them, they could now see that the charred object in his hands was, in fact, the broken and burned tip of a mast. The smith raised his gaze and frowned deeply. "A dragon."

With his mind traveling down new and unfamiliar paths, Stoick realized this information could mean several things. None of them made sense and all of them basically implied a possible new threat. "What kind of dragon?"

Gobber held out the knife. "Monstrous Nightmare, by my reckoning."

Stoick leaned forward and sniffed. The familiar sulfurous taint the Nightmare's fiery sputum left behind was obvious. It did nothing to clear up the mystery of why a dragon would suddenly burn one of their ships. As it turned out, it was the new knowledge he possessed about dragons that kept him from seeing the obvious. Gobber, unhindered by such revelations, pointed the way.

"Stoick, who do we know that rides a Monstrous Nightmare?"

Rides? This wouldn't be the work of a domesticated dragon. This had to be some feral who was wanting...

No. Domesticated... feral. These were the old thoughts. The Fury had intimated all dragons were as intelligent as he, roughly speaking. Dragons had thoughts of their own, reasons and purposes of their own.

This was the action of a dragon working against Berk in a way they'd never seen before. But why?

"The only two I know of who still ride and have a Nightmare", Gobber went on, "are Snotlout and Anvindr."

The mention of Kettlecrack's name tripped up his thoughts for a moment. But it still made no sense. Why would he burn Rorik?

And so it became a choice of questions: 'why would Kettlecrack burn a newly repaired ship' versus 'why would some random, supposedly intelligent dragon burn a newly repaired ship.' Stoick could get nowhere thinking along those lines. He needed more information.

He needed to speak once more to the Fury.

* * *

Hiccup wasn't used to being a passenger on Toothless' back. It was noticeably different from 'flying' with his friend, directing them or catching the Fury's motions to determine where the dragon wanted to go. It had been a little awkward at the start. After fitting him with his flying rig, taking to the seat and connecting his metal leg to its hinged brace, Toothless hadn't taken off immediately. He had instead worked his hind paws to grip the extra controllers. Once they were airborne, Hiccup felt the tension in the pedals as the dragon took control of the tail fin. He'd understood and withdrawn from his pedals, letting the Fury work the fin on his own.

Now he just sat on his back, wondering where the black dragon would go next. They'd circled Berk several times as the morning sun had risen. Each time they'd headed toward the glowing splendor of the dawn's spreading light Toothless would glide toward it for some time. He seemed to take some comfort in the sight; each time they moved toward the sunrise Hiccup could feel the muscles in the Night Fury's neck and shoulders relax a bit.

Each time they circled back, however, Toothless would head an equal distance west, toward the vanishing night. Toward the old nest. His flight would become stiff, his muscles tense and rigid.

Hiccup noticed after several circuits that Toothless began heading farther west each time, as though the new threat to Berk was drawing him in. When he finally got worried about it he placed a hand on the warm, wide brow and asked, "Toothless, are you ok?" He was reassured when his friend's head twisted back and the single visible eye met his with a calm, knowing gaze. The deep, rumbling purr he felt in the compact frame beneath him put any remaining fears to rest.

He knew Toothless was unhappy about the events of the previous day. The warmth of the dragon's response was comforting.

As the day grew older, however, he began to wonder once again. Hiccup was more than willing to give his friend the time and space he needed to think about their common problems. His own thoughts had run in roughly the same circles they had the night before. None of them had managed to come up with a solution to the presence on Red Death Island. He could see the weight of it bearing down on his father just as hard as it did on the Fury. The most difficult aspect of witnessing their frustration was knowing the only solution he could offer would be rejected by both of them.

In truth, the idea of flying against another Red Death did not fill him with confidence. That, in turn, allowed the other questions he had about their adversary to fester. Why couldn't they try talking to it? Why was Toothless so determined to destroy it? Was there truly no middle ground between Berk and Red Death Island?

The clouds that had made for a beautiful sunrise became sullen and gray. By noon Hiccup was spending more time watching the ocean or his home island slide along beneath them. When his stomach growled he leaned forward, put one hand on Toothless' neck and asked politely, "How about a break?"

Toothless nodded. Instead of immediately landing, however, he began cruising the shoreline. Some distance up the western coast he spotted his goal. A shallow, careful dive, a compact ball of blue fire close to the beach and a deft snatch with his front claws provided Hiccup with a quick lunch. After they landed he scrounged up some deadwood which his friend easily set alight. Sizzling fish and popping firewood helped create a relaxing mood despite earlier tensions.

They sat facing the beach, Hiccup's fillets surrounding them with a tempting aroma that mixed well with the fresh sea air and the spicy scent of pines and flowering bushes. The pleasant environment fought valiantly against the disturbing questions in his mind. When he glanced at Toothless, he saw a contemplative looking dragon staring out across the waters. Surely the Fury was deep in thought, seeking the same answers he wanted.

He hadn't eaten breakfast and so quickly finished one of the fillets. He looked again to the Fury. Toothless hadn't eaten recently that he knew. He held up the second fillet. "Hungry?"

Toothless considered, rumbled contentedly and opened his mouth. Hiccup smiled despite his remaining hunger as he tossed the fish in. He would always be happier working together with Toothless, regardless of any sacrifices he might need to make. Their friendship would forever be worth it. If only they could spread the idea to other Vikings and dragons.

An image burst into his mind. Dragons. Hundreds of dragons, maybe thousands. Odin's eye, why hadn't he thought of it before!?

"Toothless, I have it!" That got the dragon's attention quickly. The Fury gave a questioning growl. "We don't need more Vikings or ships! We need more dragons!"

The large eyes squinted in apprehension.

"We need to lure the dragons at Red Death Island away, a few at a time. If we can get them away from it long enough for the effects to wear off, we can get _all_ the other dragons on our side! Surely that would be enough to beat it!"

Toothless' wide, reptilian face wasn't exactly as expressive as a human's but it was still able to convey disappointment. The softly crooned, "No" combined with a slight shake of his head made the answer clear.

"There's no way to undo the effects of that thing's smell?"

The Fury pulled out his drawing spike. [much strong for] He hesitated, seemingly uncertain how to express himself fully. Twice he started drawing and twice he flattened his work unhappily. He glanced up at Hiccup a moment, perhaps looking for some clue to closing the gap in their vocabulary. Eventually he started drawing something familiar.

He started with the Red Death symbol and the 'meadow grass' lines that he associated with the beast's wounded dragon/hatchling smell. Next he drew two dragons with an egg between them. He tapped the egg and said, "No."

Hiccup stifled a groan. This was going to turn into another session of frustration and endless guessing, he could see it. "Are you saying that, uh... dragon eggs don't have a smell?"

"No."

He sighed. "Let's see," he muttered. "Baby dragons have a smell that makes their parents want to feed them."

"Yes."

Hiccup nodded absently. "The Red Death uses that to force other dragons to feed it. But why is the egg 'no'?"

Toothless held up his drawing spike, tapped the Red Death symbol once, then the egg drawing again. "No." Before Hiccup could say anything he flattened the egg and drew a small dragon between its parents. This he also tapped. "No." Now he wiped all three dragons clear and clumsily drew two dragons together in what could only be called the reproductive act.

"Uhhhhh..."

This pair of coupled dragons the Fury tapped with his spike and said, "Yes."

Hiccup was having a hard time taking his eyes off the drawing. "I, uh, I don't..."

Toothless' metal spike sharply rapped his metal leg, then pointed to the Red Death symbol again.

"You... oh, wait. Wait a minute!" The young man looked up at his friend. "The smell only affects dragons that are old enough to... to, uh, have babies. Right?"

"Yes!" [much strong for breeding]

He digested this for several moments. There were a couple of jarring thoughts that came to him.

"Are you saying that any dragon old enough to... to breed... will be affected? They can't fight it?"

"Yes."

Hiccup stared at him, almost afraid to ask his next question. "Are there enough young dragons around to help us fight it?"

Toothless shook his head and crooned sadly. "No."

He'd only just come up with the idea so it didn't bother him quite so much to have it proved impossible so quickly. But there was another question that nagged much harder at him.

"Toothless, are you... are you old enough to..." Hiccup frowned slightly, bothered by the personal nature of his question. "Are you fully grown? An adult?"

"No."

Hiccup found that surprising. He'd always considered himself the younger half of their partnership.

"Will you get bigger?"

"No."

"How old are you?"

That question stopped Toothless cold. He didn't seem to understand the nature of it.

"Well, how many winters have you seen?"

If anything, that puzzled the Fury even more. And it forced Hiccup to backtrack his questioning even further.

"Do you guys use numbers?"

A sizable portion of the afternoon was then spent learning that dragons had no solid numbering system. They seemed to have the idea of 'one', 'two' and 'three'. Beyond that came simple generalities. 'Few', 'much', 'some' and 'many' were the closest the scaled people got to using numbers. Hiccup tried to get the basics across to his friend, using his fingers and the Fury's claws to explain the names of numbers and their values. Toothless seemed to do well until he finished counting all the claws on one paw. When Hiccup attempted to introduce the next number, including the first claw of his other paw, Toothless repeatedly went back to 'one' again. Math functions like adding were simply outside the dragons' mindset.

He did learn, however, that dragons kept general track of their age, often using descriptions of whatever portion of their body continually changed over their lifetime. For Monstrous Nightmares it was the length of the horns on their head while Hideous Zipplebacks were judged by the density of spots on their hide.

When he asked how Night Furies distinguished their relative age, he almost burst out laughing at Toothless' response. His dignified, powerful friend stuck his broad, forked tongue out at him. It took a good deal of self control and a lot of pantomiming to work his way through to the explanation: the older a Night Fury got, the darker the skin of his or her tongue became. Apparently the warm pink of Toothless' tongue was the mark of an adolescent.

Their talk turned to Hiccup's age. Toothless was just as surprised to find that his rider was not yet an adult. The young man described some of the many ways Vikings showed their age. This apparently cleared up some minor mysteries for the dragon; the variations he'd seen among the villagers hadn't made much sense to him until he was told that many of them were related to age.

By the time they were ready to return to the house it was nearly dark. Once again Toothless took the initiative and controlled his own flight on the way back. Some part of Hiccup's heart was mightily warmed by this simple act. While it still wasn't a true replacement for what his friend had lost, it was as close as he could make it for him. And the dragon was getting more confident with the controllers, too. As they landed in front of the Haddock home, Hiccup felt the Fury's hindquarters shift as he released the wooden control rods. This was immediately followed by a flaring of his wings and a four-footed landing that ended with a short slide. He could have sworn he heard the dragon chortling softly as he started removing the flying rig.

The house was empty when they entered. Wanting to keep his pleasant mood going, Hiccup built the fire back up and started fixing a simple dinner for when his father returned. As he worked, Toothless practiced some of his newer symbols in the cold end of the hearth.

The fish stew was nearly ready when the door opened to admit Stoick. The chief glanced at the pair of them, at the simmering pot over the fire and gave a satisfied grunt. "Evening, Hiccup. Evening, Toothless." Both answered quietly as he sat in his chair, his son offering a soft, "Hey dad" while the Fury matched a short rumble with an upraised paw that held his drawing spike.

"I'm glad you're here. I've a new puzzle for you."

"Oh?" Hiccup was grateful the unsolvable dilemma they faced could be put aside for the time being. "What's that?"

Stoick leaned forward in his chair and held out a chunk of burned wood. "This." He looked directly at the dragon and asked, "Can you tell me how this got burned?"

The Night Fury's ear fins twitched and he cocked his head slightly in confusion. Hiccup voiced what was almost certainly going through the dragon's mind. "What do you mean?"

"Smell of it," was all Stoick said.

Toothless rose up and approached him, putting his snout close to the burned wood and sniffing repeatedly. When he jerked his head back to stare at the object, both Vikings watched him intently. The Fury's gaze went from Stoick to Hiccup and back again. He then moved back to the hearth and started drawing.

A long neck and tail, large wings and two pair of horns protruding from the long-snouted head made identifying the Monstrous Nightmare easy enough. When Toothless tapped his drawing of that species, pointed toward the hearth fire and then to the burned wood, it was only part of the answer Stoick needed.

"Aye, so we thought. But can you tell me which one?"

"What's going on," Hiccup wanted to know. "What's happened?"

Toothless approached the object again, sniffing deeply. He backed off a bit and sat a moment, apparently considering what his nose was telling him.

Before any answer could be given there was a rough knock at the door. Stoick bid their new visitor to enter. Oddly, the chief looked as confused as Hiccup felt to see Hogknee Vapnfjord at their door with Herdis Lundby in tow. Both looked worried.

Stoick stood and approached the man. "Hogknee, come in please. Have a seat." He nodded at Herdis and greeted her as well. The two of them entered but came no closer than the end of the hearth where Toothless had been drawing. Hogknee, Hiccup noticed, was entirely focused on his leader but Herdis' eyes went immediately to the black dragon and stayed there. "Care for some stew? We were just about to sit down."

The head of the Vapnfjord family shook his head minutely. "No, thank ye. I've no appetite just now." Hiccup frowned, wondering what had happened to the man to upset him so. The young man looked again to Herdis but the girl was still staring at Toothless. The Fury only sat where he was, staying still and watching the others in the room.

"No, of course," Stoick said gently, confirming to Hiccup that _something_ had happened to Hogknee. He only had a moment to wonder if the new 'puzzle' of the burned wooden object in his hand was related to Hogknee's distress before his father continued. "We're still looking into it. I've some idea of how it happened but I've no particulars yet." As he said this, Stoick's eyes shifted momentarily to the Night Fury. Hiccup's curiosity was growing by the moment but it was all swept away by a quick shake of Hogknee's head and the desperate tone of his voice.

"It's not that, Stoick. It's Jaspin."

Except for the subdued crackling of the fire and the gentle bubbling of the stewpot, there was complete silence in the Haddock house.

Stoick changed on the instant. His face hardened, his back straightened and his voice took on the tone of command Hiccup knew from so many times of crisis in Berk's history. One of the villagers was in trouble and the chief was now committed to dealing with whatever dilemma Hogknee had brought. "What's happened?"

"He left yesterday afternoon and hasn't been back since."

Stoick's demeanor softened a bit. "I know he's your only child, but he is at that age when a boy will usually start exploring on his own."

Hogknee shook his head sadly. "Most might, but Jaspin's always been a good son. He always comes home at night. It's just not like him to up and disappear." He looked at Herdis, who was still preoccupied with the Night Fury. "That's not all, though. Herdis came looking for him tonight and told me something."

Hearing her name, the Lundby girl finally looked at the men in the room. It took her a moment to realize they were waiting for her to speak. "I... I'm sorry. I just wanted to know if Bitterbug was ok. I asked him to see if he... if he could find her."

The chief's eye narrowed in concentration. He turned to Hogknee. "Is his dragon with him?"

"I've not seen Bitequick either. I guess they probably would be together."

With a slightly more relaxed tone, Stoick gave a faint smile and said, "Then most likely they've gone and gotten themselves farther from home than they intended. I'd be surprised if they weren't back by morning, red faced and full of their adventure."

"But if they're not-" Hogknee protested. The senior Haddock held up his hand.

"If they aren't, Hiccup can have a look for them. Eh, son?"

"Uhh, I... uhh..." Taken somewhat off guard, Hiccup's first instinct was to agree. But he instantly realized it was inferred that he and Toothless would fly around Berk to search for the boy. A short while ago that would have made no difference. Now, however, he found himself balking at agreeing to anything that involved Toothless without his friend's consent. He turned to the dragon and saw the Fury give an immediate yet subtle nod. "Y-yes, yes of course. We- I'd be happy to." Strangely, Toothless shifted his gaze to Blacktongue's daughter. That's when Hiccup noticed she had gone back to staring at the dragon.

Had she noticed his friend's silent answer? The two of them continued to stare at each other as Stoick spoke up once more.

"Right. If he's not back by breakfast, I'm sure he'll be found by lunch."

* * *

By late morning of the next day, Hiccup was sitting with Toothless on their favorite seastack. They stared out at a relatively calm sea, leaning against each other and trying to find some comfort in each other's company. They'd been uneasy since learning that a new Red Death was occupying the dragon's old nest and was once again forcing them to raid Berk to feed it. Hiccup felt like everything the two of them had gone through had been undone. He never would have imagined things could get worse.

He now knew that, for some unfathomable reason, a Monstrous Nightmare had burned and sunk Rorik before the trading voyage could begin. When asked if he knew which of that breed had committed the act, Toothless had been unable to provide an answer. Snotlout and his dragon had been around Berk enough to establish a fairly good alibi even though no one suspected him or Asgeirr of anything. Anvindr, the only other villager who rode a Nightmare, couldn't be found.

Then there came the news that Jaspin and his dragon had gone missing. After volunteering to search, Hiccup had gone to those members of his dragon training class who still rode their dragons and asked for their assistance. They made as thorough a search of Berk as they could without finding any trace of the boy or his Deadly Nadder. They did come across something unexpected: a few dozen nesting dragons on the far north shore of the island, comfortably guarding nests and calling to their dragons as they flew past.

And so now they sat, quietly and separately contemplating their recent discoveries. Hiccup intensely disliked when problems showed up in multiples. He preferred to deal with one problem at a time. His focus tended to suffer when it was divided among more than one crisis. Jaspin's disappearance didn't feel as urgent, not when the presence to their west threatened the whole of the island. Hiccup tended to agree with his father on that subject; most likely the boy had wandered a greater distance than he or Bitequick intended and would soon be back. He'd done it himself in recent years. One of the few pleasant surprises in his life had been the lack of anger when he'd been gone from the house for several days to test some new weapon idea. In those rare moments he almost felt like a normal Viking, seen as being able to care for himself out in the woods.

Toothless, of course, changed that entire scenario. The two of them could, and did, journey for days at a time, exploring the nearby islands without need of a ship or supervision. Dragons had given Berk a mobility they'd never experienced before. Heading to Greslardin to hunt used to be a prospect of several days. Now it could be an afternoon's distraction.

The image of Vikings flocking to that hunting ground on the backs of dragons prompted another thought. What would happen to a rider if his or her dragon was suddenly exposed to the deceptive scent of the Red Death? Would he or she be summarily dumped into the new parasite's immense maw without regard? Would the dragon struggle to choose between following its instinct and its emotional connection to a rider?

In a blink the question came to him, connecting two of the problems they faced; had that happened to Jaspin? Hiccup stiffened at the thought and Toothless grunted inquisitively at feeling the sudden tension in his rider's slim frame.

"Toothless, was Bitequick fully grown? Would she be in danger if they went to Red Death Island?"

The Night Fury didn't answer. At least not directly. The dragon suddenly looked pained, as if the question had caused him some personal discomfort. Hiccup felt a disturbing chill at the implication.

"She... she wouldn't hurt him, would she? I mean..."

He couldn't continue, not when the look on Toothless' face already gave him the answer. Perhaps it was something the dragon had learned, or perhaps he'd simply started mimicking what he'd seen on the faces of Vikings now that he'd been closely exposed to them for many months. The Fury's range of expression had noticeably grown lately. While Hiccup had wondered in odd moments at its cause, he was too deeply struck by how terribly _guilty_ his dragon looked at his question to consider it now.

There was no longer any doubt. Hiccup knew what they needed to do. "We need to go look, see if we can find them there." He started to get up.

The dragon suddenly reared to a seated position, his wings spread and his pupils thinned in agitation. His jaws parted, his teeth flashed and a percussive roar that Hiccup could barely recognize as "NO" rattled his eardrums.

The young man couldn't have been more shocked if his friend had bitten him. It wasn't just the violence of the dragon's reaction, either. It was also the look of unadulterated fear that wiped away the shameful expression of only a moment ago. Toothless the Night Fury, the most fearsome predator known to Berk, was terrified of Hiccup's suggestion.

Hiccup was frozen for several moments, uncertain of what Toothless' reaction meant. Surely he didn't feel that Jaspin and Bitequick weren't worth the effort or risk to explore the possibility they were in trouble on Red Death Island. He could only assume it was the monster itself that spurred such a deep-seated aversion. He stood and put his hands under the Fury's jaw, trying to give what small comfort and reassurance he could. A strange inversion, considering the marked difference in their physical abilities.

"We have to, buddy. We can't just leave them there if they're in trouble."

The guilt reemerged, stronger than before. Toothless pressed his crown into Hiccup's stomach and moaned, "No." Hiccup nearly stumbled as he was pushed back a pace and his false foot bumped an exposed tree root. He looked over his shoulder a second, making sure they were far enough from the seastack's edge.

He rubbed the ridges over the tightly closed eyes. "It'll be ok, Toothless. You said you're young enough not to be in danger. We just need to take a quick look around. I'm sure we can handle it together."

Toothless raised his head, unintentionally nudging Hiccup back another step. Their eyes locked and now the young man had to puzzle out another new expression on that familiar draconic face. The Fury backed up a pace and reached with practiced surety for his sheathed drawing spike. [much bad danger need fly alone]

It was Hiccup's turn to utter a quiet, pained, "No." The idea of being left behind again was more than he could stand. "Please, Toothless, don't do that to me again. That's... I can't... we'll be fine, I'm sure. We'll be really careful, I promise."

The dragon looked miserable but scratched another [much] in front of the first one. Fear spiked into Hiccup's heart and he felt like he was losing too much of the ground he'd gained since he first understood the true nature of his friend. Words tumbled from his mouth, higher pitched than he wanted and on the edge of trembling uncontrollably. "Why? Why won't you let me go with you? Do you think I'll be a burden or a... an obstacle?"

Toothless shook his head vigorously. "No."

"It's not like we haven't done this before!" All the pain and fear that had lodged in his stomach the last time he'd been left behind returned. This time, however, there was a flickering of heat, an unaccustomed hint of anger at his friend for suggesting what had put him through such emotional turmoil before. "And we didn't even know what we were doing then! We're better equipped and better prepared and..."

And Toothless still looked like he'd rather do anything but agree to Hiccup's request. But the more he remembered the time he'd just spent agonizing over his dragon's absence the more determined he was to push Toothless for an answer. "Why? What are you afraid of? Why do you want me to stay behind?"

Perhaps Hiccup's insistence sparked a bit of anger in the dragon as well. The look of fear became tempered with that look of irritation he knew so well. Whether unintentional or playfully deliberate, he'd caused that slight lowering of ear fins and eye lids enough times to recognize it instantly.

Toothless dropped his head, looking down and perhaps ready to concede Hiccup's point. But then he reached out with his drawing spike and tapped the wood and metal construct that allowed the young man to walk.

A heartbeat of confusion, another of realization and a third of sudden heated resentment thudded against his breastbone. How could he?! Never once had Hiccup expected his friend to consider his infirmity to be a limiting factor in the young Viking's life. Certainly not when something as important as searching for the lost was at stake. He quickly saw the hypocrisy of such a position and practically shouted, "Hey!" When the dragon's eyes met his he stabbed an accusing finger at the end of his tail, a mighty frown pulling at his features.

The Fury actually had to look behind him to understand the focus of his rider's irritation. Even then his comprehension wasn't immediate. He turned back to Hiccup, clearly bewildered by the comparison.

He gave a heavy sigh, aggrieved that the dragon still couldn't see the problem with such an attitude toward their different handicaps. "You're not the only one who's not whole anymore, remember?"

The range of Toothless' expressions had expanded quite a bit that afternoon and now he added another. He looked almost horrified at Hiccup's statement. Perhaps the vocal response of "No no no" helped clarify what he was seeing, or maybe the energetic shaking of his wide head. With a hurried sweep of his paw he cleared a spot to write [much like leg, not want give more] in the dirt.

"Oh. Oh, Toothless. I'm... I'm sorry, I thought-" Heat rose to his cheeks as he saw where the dragon's real concern lay. He felt rather small at that moment, but the specter of abandonment still lurked in his mind. "Look," he entreated. He put his hands under the Fury's jaw again, wanting that contact as he tried to explain his own fears. "I'm... I..."

Hiccup hesitated. He couldn't place blame or burden on Toothless, even if the gut-gnawing fear of waiting for his friend to return from a dangerous journey nearly made him sick. He stared into those enormous eyes, deep green and holding him as firmly as any family member or close friend ever could. He had trouble finding the words. Finally he just opened his mouth and let his heart speak its piece.

"This is ours. This thing... there's no one else who can deal with it. No matter how we do it, it has to be us. Not you. Not me. Us."

There was pain in those eyes. He was sure it was showing as plainly in his own.

"I know you feel the same way I do. Being apart just... it just doesn't work, you know? Whether we fight this thing or not, it has to be together. I'm scared, too, but I'd..."

His throat locked up. His arms shook. He closed his eyes a moment and gathered his strength. When he could speak, his voice was far rougher than usual.

"I'd rather fight a hundred of those things than spend the rest of my days staring at the sky waiting for you to come b-"

He had to clench his jaws a moment.

"Come." He swallowed. "Back."

There were no tears. Not for him or for Toothless. Dragons, he knew, did not weep. But there was an understanding that passed silently between them. A new connection was made as they both agreed, without words, that their fates were tied in all things.

Even the most dangerous ones.

* * *

If they'd experienced more tension or anxiety on a recent flight, neither could remember it. Hiccup had to constantly adjust to Toothless' twitchy course and the dragon grumbled incessantly. It had started with a brief argument about letting someone know what they intended. Despite his own misgivings about getting close to the new Red Death, Hiccup felt they should let his father know where they were going. Toothless agreed but when they found the house empty he protested leaving anyway. Hiccup suspected his friend might be stalling or perhaps even hoping Stoick would forbid them to go. They found a compromise in leaving a clear message in the ashes of the hearth with the poker stuck straight in the middle to catch his attention.

Once they were in sight of the island they started having minor conflicts in direction. Hiccup favored a high approach while Toothless wanted to come in low over the water. The dragon won that little contest since his rider hadn't seen the island but twice and only for a short while each time. The massive drifts of fog that had always obscured the land were present, making Hiccup realize the wisdom of letting the Fury handle navigating their way ashore.

As they got closer, he could see the tips of the rocky obstacles that had always prevented Viking ships from making a successful approach. They passed beneath them like the breaching fins of hungry sharks. Before they actually touched ground, Hiccup noticed a strong scent of decay mixed with something far more noxious.

"Toothless, what is that? Is it... the old one?"

Before Toothless could respond, they broke into the lee of the island. The ocean winds that blew the fog and steam around the base of the island formed a large cleared area where they could see the land easily. The dragon checked his flight suddenly, causing Hiccup to exclaim in surprise. Toothless hovered a distance from the shore and the two of them took a moment to survey a painfully familiar landscape.

Far to their right sat the shattered remains of the catapults Berk had brought to the nest. Not one remained untouched. Those not trampled to kindling by the Red Death had been torn down for lumber to repair ships for the return voyage. Closer lay the charred hulls of their former fleet. Bits of rope and chain and a few meager scraps of sail cloth were all that they could see among the blackened ribs of ships that rose out of the water's edge. Beyond the woeful debris of a hopeless battle lay the staggeringly large hole left by the Red Death's forceful eruption onto the beach.

All this held Hiccup's attention for only a few heartbeats. The smell that assaulted them waxed and waned with each casual breeze. At its worst it was nearly unbearable, feeling like it was actually biting his nose and throat and making his eyes burn. He looked to their right, expecting to see the remains of their common foe.

What had once been the ultimate power behind the nest, and the unending raids it instigated, was only barely recognizable as a once-living thing. Hiccup had heard numerous descriptions of the beast, both living and deceased. Although details were nebulous due to the amount of exaggeration bestowed by each storyteller, a few facts had been established as common. One of those was the amount of damage done to the body of the Red Death upon its impact on the beach.

Hiccup remembered, though only hazily, an enormous raging fireball that threatened to consume them before they could escape. In the instant before the massive dragon's body exploded, the creature had done what any living thing would do when in a panicked fall. It had put it forelegs before it in a hopeless attempt to catch itself. It had tilted its head back as far as it could, trying to protect all those related vulnerable areas; nose, mouth and eyes. As a result of those two actions, nearly everyone who caught sight of it said the Red Death had driven its forelegs into the beach with the massive bulk of its body collapsing on top of it. Three or four accounts had the sides of the dragon splitting open like a rotten sack with the force of the impact an instant before its gas bladder ruptured and ignited.

As Toothless brought them to the shore a good distance from the carcass, the basic shape of the body looked to represent the remains of a creature that perished in that way. The head was comparatively undamaged though the scaled skin was sloughing off in large areas. From the neck back, however, it was a hugely misshapen lump of blackened... _something_. A few lighter colored spires may have been ribs. The highest point of the body tapered roughly outward as the force of the explosion had sent the softer portions of the internal organs flying. Strangely, one huge hind leg and foot was completely separated and lying folded back along the spine. Whatever remained of the tail was lost among the rough rocky beach, except for the club end which seemed to be entirely gone.

Hiccup was struck dumb at the sight. Beyond the scope of the damage caused to the creature and the horrific results that lay before them, there were several things that he noticed after staring for some time. The most notable thing was that the body still _smoked_. Tendrils of thin, greasy looking smoke could be seen occasionally rising over the thickest portion of the body. Generations of experience had taught Berk that the carcass of the average dragon was worthless; the meat couldn't be eaten, the hide couldn't be cured and some time after death they began to smoke and _stink_. Disposing of dead dragons had become as much a tradition in the village as fighting them. No one questioned the why of always removing them before beginning the efforts to rebuild after a battle.

It also seemed that scavengers viewed dragon carcasses the same way Berk did. There were no gulls or hawks hovering around such a huge pile of disintegrating meat. Perhaps they'd visited it early on and it was too far gone to interest them. Whatever the reason, the Red Death had no visitors.

His eyes locked on the head, lying canted on the rough ground. At first it was hard to be certain of what he was seeing. Then he realized the huge skull was broken and misshapen. The top of the head was sitting at an angle to the ground, facing them. The lower jaw, however, had fractured and tilted out to form a macabre line of shattered teeth facing outward, as though defending the skull from possible attackers.

Hiccup was simultaneously intrigued and repulsed by the sight. The smell certainly didn't help. Perhaps it was the sight of it, truly dead and unable to harm anyone as a result of their actions. It was proof of their victory. The dragon's victory, as well.

Which turned out to be short lived.

As grateful as he was to be alive and able to view a beast he had considered an enemy, there was something else that pulled on him. "Toothless, can we get closer?"

The Night Fury twisted his head around enough to look him solidly in the eye. He gave a questioning grunt, as though he would prefer to stay back.

"I just want to see it."

The closer they got the more powerful the smell became. As he fought the burning in his nose and throat and the fierce watering of his eyes, he noticed that Toothless seemed almost as badly affected by it. The Fury shook his head and pawed at his nose, emitting short, annoyed growls as he did.

Toothless landed them a short distance away and set himself side-on to the corpse. He began fanning his wings to keep the worst of the smell at bay. It helped noticeably. It also made it harder to see the damaged skull with the huge sheet of black leather rising and falling between Hiccup and the carcass. He stared at it as best he could, seeing the three empty holes where its eyes had been.

Something about those lifeless sockets bothered him. As much as there was of the thing to stare at, its eyes drew his attention most powerfully. He concentrated, trying to solve the puzzle.

The skull was tipped toward him, patches of decayed and desiccated flesh hanging like sheets from the bone. The lower jaw, broken at the tip of the snout and pushed out toward him, seemed to forbid a closer approach. And still the eyes held his own. What was...

"Wait. Toothless. Stop flapping a minute, would you?"

The black dragon did as asked, looking back at him questioningly.

Hiccup couldn't help it. Without thinking about it, he slipped from the saddle, disconnecting his safety straps and dismounting with his left leg out. For once, he landed squarely despite the rocky terrain. He stepped closer to the skull, to those eye sockets. The huge nostril gaped nearby, large enough for him to enter had he wished. But the smaller openings, the three round holes that traced an angled line toward the top of the skull wouldn't leave him alone.

The lowest one seemed largest. In fact, each eye that followed after the first seemed slightly smaller than the previous. The eyes themselves were long gone, those delicate structures able to withstand hammer blows from his cousin but not the dissolution of death.

A dead Death. The deadly Death was dead. Hiccup's mind spiraled off into a strange loop of pointless wordplay as he stared at those three vacant holes. His memory echoed with terrible roars and pure malice in those absent eyes. He could see the rounded cup of bone beyond the opening, the support for the eye and protection for what lay behind it. He glanced at the second one, then the third.

Wait...

Hiccup stared, uncertain of what he was seeing. He moved carefully along the uneven ground, wincing when his iron foot landed on something that squished slightly. "Toothless, are you seeing this?" He pointed and the Fury came to his side, looking up. "Is that what I think it is?"

Toothless stared, seeming to be as surprised as Hiccup. The dragon gave a quiet grunt of, "Yes."

He backed up a step, taking in the whole of the head and the placement of the third eye. "If you could get the angle right and figure out how to... but what would you use? Anything heavy enough... and if it's moving..."

He was interrupted by a sound. It was undeniably a dragon's roar, but it sounded like it came from beneath the ground. It reverberated strangely and was diminished as though by distance. Toothless instantly became alert and started growling. The Fury looked behind them at the hole torn into the mountain, then nudged Hiccup roughly with his head.

"Uhh, yeah." Hiccup had managed to forget that there was now a living version of the carcass before them within that mountain. "We need to look for Jaspin." From where the sound seemed to originate, Hiccup felt they would do best by relocating upward. He glanced up, pointing. "How about we take the high ground so we can see more of the island? He might even be flying around here."

Toothless hadn't stopped growling. He'd taken an aggressive stance facing the hole and the lack of his flapping had allowed the power of the Red Death's rotting scent to invade their senses.

"Come on bud," Hiccup urged him as he climbed back onto the saddle. He coughed once before adding, "Let's get up there."

The weight upon his back appeared to calm the dragon and he quickly settled his controllers and lowered his hindquarters to launch. One last glance at the old Death's head gave Hiccup some measure of hope. If he was right, if what they'd seen could be used against a Red Death then perhaps Berk had a real chance at winning the freedom of both the village and the dragons.

Hiccup kept that image in his mind as they climbed the cool, moist air for the summit. Three bony sockets in a row, empty of eyes yet full of secrets. And there on the beach, the truth in decay; two sockets with deep bowls of bone and one without. The third eye socket that opened into nothing less than the vulnerable interior of the Red Death's skull might just be their salvation.

Once they had gotten as high as the central peak of the mountain they circled, looking for any obvious signs of Jaspin or his Deadly Nadder. Hiccup was not surprised to see nests with dragons hovering around each one. There were far more nests here than the far shore of Berk. It looked like possibly the entire adult population of dragons was trying to raise a new generation. And those they could see could also see them. Unlike the ones on Berk, these ignored them as they flew by.

Several passes around the spire revealed nothing that could tell them what had happened to the fisherman's son and his dragon. Hiccup noticed a large opening at the top of the spire that led out onto a fairly wide open area where many nests had been built. If anyone had come here and needed shelter, they might be within that high cave. Assuming they'd had a dragon to fly them up there. He pointed it out to Toothless and the Fury agreed to land.

From the air, the size of the opening wasn't apparent. Standing at its threshold revealed the cave's true dimensions. Hiccup had to wonder if any dragons used it for shelter. He looked around, having trouble adjusting to the dim light. He took several careful steps in, Toothless close by his side.

The first thing to which his attention was drawn was what he stepped on. The sole of his boot broke something that snapped with a familiar dry crunch. Hiccup looked down to see several ribs beneath him. They looked to be seal ribs, still connected to a short section of spine. Scanning the floor around him revealed many more bones, mostly from larger animals. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior of the cave he noticed a few other things. A long dead Gronckle lay against one wall, bitten clean in half. He saw that as proof positive of the existence of the new Red Death. He felt a tingle wash over his skin as he considered it.

Another object claimed his attention briefly. It was a rough cloth sack sitting near the entrance. It looked to have been made from an old tunic. Inside it were a few shriveled potatoes. Hiccup looked around, trying to figure out how it had gotten there and whose it might be. Could Jaspin have brought it? And if so, why?

He dropped the sack when he heard a sharp, pained wail. He turned to see Toothless standing on the other side of the cave. His wings were partially spread, blocking the view of whatever he'd found. Hiccup quickly approached, worried about the noise his dragon had made.

Stepping around Toothless brought him to another dead dragon, this one newly killed. It was a Deadly Nadder. Hiccup felt a rush of cold in his gut. Could this be her? He stepped to one side.

A saddle. It wore a saddle. "No," he whispered. "Oh, no." Slowly he approached, his empty hand before him, wanting to deny the sight. His heart was numb as he knelt by the horribly crushed chest of the dragon. He touched the stirrup where it lay against the cold scales. Turning it over revealed a piece of wooly lambskin. It was the addition he'd made to Bitequick's saddle to give her comfort against the chafing leather.

Hiccup drew a shaky breath, fearing that Jaspin was dead as well. There was no sign of him, except perhaps the sack he had found. He gently touched Bitequick's neck, his fingers tracing the scales until they reached a spot where the broken bones beneath had nearly come through the hide. "Gods, Bitequick."

A low keening sounded behind him. He turned to see Toothless hunched over, his wings draping the floor and his head hung. He keened again and Hiccup was shocked to see tiny trickles of wispy blue flames escape his muzzle.

"T... Toothless?" The wide head slowly came up, the eyes opening. The Fury keened once more, little blue flames leaking from his slightly opened maw. The pain in those eyes, in that voice; it was too obvious. Hiccup had been wrong. Dragons did weep. But they didn't weep with tears. They wept with fire.

Stricken by their discovery and Toothless' display, Hiccup stood and threw his arms around the Fury's neck. He pressed his face against the warm scales and thanked whichever gods were listening for the presence of his friend.

Behind his closed eyes he saw Bitequick, standing next to Jaspin. He remembered the fondness those two had shown each other. He recalled Jaspin's heartfelt question outside his small forge: 'Hiccup, do you love Toothless?'

Had Jaspin been here when this happened to his friend? Hiccup couldn't imagine seeing Toothless injured or killed in such a way. It must have been horrible. He held his friend all the tighter, trying to dispel the weight of Bitequick's death. "I know," he said softly. They stayed that way for a time, trying to deal with the loss of their friends.

But what had become of Jaspin? Nadders were no easy target and Hiccup had to assume the Red Death had brutally overpowered Bitequick. If they'd both been in the cave... Hiccup pulled back from Toothless' neck, looking around again for any sign he may have missed. Even with his eyes adjusted to the cave's dark interior he could see nothing helpful, nothing that would tell the full story.

Hiccup, his arms still draped over the Fury's neck, turned back to Bitequick. He swallowed, wishing he knew what to do. Should her body be attended to? Was there something they should do for her, some draconic ritual or rite to be performed to ease her passing to-

His thoughts suddenly got too complicated and he shied away from them. He shook his head and deliberately moved a step away from Toothless. He needed to think.

Thinking did no good. The only thing he could come up with was to return Bitequick's saddle to Jaspin's father as evidence of his son's probable fate. Hiccup moved to unbuckle the main support strap and found it bent to the point it pinched the leather. He tried to unwedge it without success. Sudden anger built and he withdrew his knife to cut the strap.

Once he had the main strap free he cut the secondary strap and pulled at the saddle. The Nadder's weight kept him from freeing it, though. He pulled harder, straining against Bitequick's considerable bulk and his bad leg. When he realized he couldn't retrieve it, he glanced behind him. "Toothless, could you help please?"

The Night Fury's pupils were narrowed but he wasn't showing aggression or anger. He didn't move.

"I want to take the saddle back to Hogknee. It's all he may ever get back of..." He looked down at it, imagining how the fisherman would take the loss. Then, sympathetically, he imagined his own father being handed Toothless' saddle in lieu of his remaining family. "Of his son," he finished quietly.

A moment later, Toothless stepped forward. He shot his teeth out and grabbed one of Bitequick's unbroken head spikes. Pulling with all four legs, he rolled the body partially over. Her neck swiveled at an unnatural angle. Hiccup pulled the saddle out and held it close to his chest. When Toothless let go, Bitequick fell back with a dull thump.

Hiccup had seen dead dragons his whole life, but never before had the sight disturbed him as much as it did now. Bitequick was a dragon he _knew_, one that had sat with Toothless on occasion and, one would assume, spoken to the Fury. He hadn't given his relationship with other dragons much thought beyond the fact that he considered those he knew as 'friends of friends.'

Staring at the dead Nadder, Hiccup suddenly recognized this as another first. He'd been the first to befriend a dragon, the first to ride one and the first to speak to one. Now, for the first time in the history of Berk, he would mourn the loss of a dragon.

Clutching the saddle tightly to his chest, Hiccup returned to his friend's side and leaned against him. He closed his eyes again and just let the Night Fury's presence calm him. He heard a familiar rustling and felt the light pressure of Toothless' wing as he draped it across his shoulders. A deep groan bubbled up from the Fury's chest as they tried to cope with a moment of shared grief.

The saddle in his arms eventually pulled his thoughts away from Bitequick's loss and back to their original intentions. "Toothless, we need to look for Jaspin. He might still be alive somewhere on this island. He might be hurt or... or hiding."

A roar answered him. From that moment on things happened too fast for Hiccup to understand until later.

It wasn't Toothless' voice that responded to him. That meant it was unlikely the powerful sound had anything to do with his statement. It came from the back of the cave and it spurred a short series of events that left Hiccup terrified and bewildered.

An instant after recognizing that some other dragon had sounded off, the young man was roughly shoved to the floor by his wing as Toothless spun in place to face the rear of the cavern. The saddle in his possession did much to soften the blow to his chest and face but his arms were rudely battered by the rough floor. He could only grunt in pain and surprise as his ears registered yet another sound.

A new growl came from very close, almost feral in its ferocity. There was no time for Hiccup to compare it to the one other instance in his life he'd heard such a sound. It had been in the arena the previous autumn when an enraged Night Fury had defended him from an attacking Monstrous Nightmare.

The moment Hiccup spent on the ground, trying to gather his wits and raise his weight off his scraped and bleeding arms was the last relatively calm moment he had in the cave. Another, louder roar sounded from somewhere within the mountain, the power of it vibrating through the stone beneath him and setting his muscles to shivering. Alarm spread through his being and he immediately shifted to his knees, pushing first against the saddle then lifting it as he prepared to stand.

Another roar, close and filled with a promise of destruction. There wasn't even time for his blood to run cold as he swiveled his head toward Toothless. From the empty depths came two large eyes, huge green orbs barely marked by shrunken slits. The eyes rushed toward him, displaying fear or rage he couldn't tell. He tensed, not understanding at all what his dragon was doing but knowing the speed at which he moved guaranteed no gentle contact.

An eyeblink later he felt an unreasoning stab of real fear as the Fury's head arrowed straight toward him, maw gaping and pink gums glistening. Another shock pounded through his body as that wide mouth slammed into him and clamped shut, pinning him from his lower chest to his upper legs. He was harshly jerked off the ground, instinct forcing him to clutch at the saddle as if it could offer support. He nearly lost the leather device as he was bounced up and down with each panicked stride the Night Fury took toward escape.

Hiccup could say nothing, could think of nothing. He barely recognized that they had moved from darkness to light, that the rushing wind was making him deaf to any other sounds. Toothless changed course once they were free of the confines of the cave; he could tell by the wrenching he took which threatened to sling him from the dubious safety of the dragon's mouth. Perhaps that was what prompted the wide jaws to close harder upon him, nearly driving the breath from his body and pushing his instincts harder toward fear of his life. The increased pressure also made it possible to feel the hard impacts of Toothless' paws upon the stony ground. The dragon was running as though in mortal fear. Facing down in the dragon's jaws as he was, he could catch the flash of one forepaw as it repeatedly reached forward and struck the ground, only to disappear as quick as a fly's heartbeat.

Just as Hiccup started to get some small amount of grip on his situation he was once again tossed into a maelstrom of confusion and fear. There was a slight hesitation, a strange sensation of subtle shifting and then a familiar hard _SNAP_ of massive wings extending to their full reach. He nearly dropped the saddle as they launched from the edge of the mountainside which whipped by his view.

He'd never seen this before. From Toothless' back a dive off a cliff was thrilling, the broad stretch of wings and body beneath him giving him the support his mind needed to counter the innate terror of sudden and uncontrollable falling. Dangling like a mackerel in his dragon's jaws as they literally jumped off the side of a mountain felt like he was being driven toward certain death, pushed by the Fury toward ever greater speed. The sight of approaching rocks below filled him with dread as he realized he was _in the wrong place_. He needed his foot in the control pedal. Without the adjustments he needed to make to pull out of this dive, they would both meet the same end as the old Red Death.

Thor must have been laughing his godly guts out at the irony. The two tiny heroes who had drawn the immense Red Death to its doom were now plunging directly for the carcass of that same creature in the same way. Hiccup could see it below through the clearing fog and steam. He wanted to shout, to tell Toothless to pull up but the shrieking wind made it impossible. He impulsively gripped the saddle tighter and pushed it away as if to ward off the inevitable impact.

Just as the familiar rising scream of air passing over a Night Fury's midwings reached his ears, Hiccup felt their direction begin to change. With room to spare the stony beach began to arc away and behind them. The foggy seastacks took its place, then the wide open ocean.

Perhaps it was the unrelenting pressure on his lower body. Maybe it was the stunning and unexpected physical stress he'd just experienced. Whatever it was, Hiccup had to fight valiantly to keep his last meal down. When he was sure words would come out of his mouth and not vomit, he made a simple and heartfelt request.

"Toothless! Down! Please!"

With all that had happened in the last ten minutes or so, neither one noticed something hidden at the back of the cave: a pair of small, round eyes, silently observant and full of anger.

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2013

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN**:Things are slowly gaining speed now; a couple close encounters and a secret revealed.

I'm sure you all know he sequel, "How to train your dragon 2" will be in theaters June 13th. This will probably stall my writing for a little while as I absorb the new canon material. I won't let it derail me - I've put far too much effort into this to let it go unfinished. But it might make it harder to be creative as my story and Dreamwork's diverge for good. We shall see.


	32. Conclave

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**AN**

I never put author notes at the beginning of a chapter so this alone should tell you something is up. First I want to apologize for keeping you guys waiting so long for an update. Between everyday life and a heavy workload at the plant it's been extremely difficult to find time or energy to write. With several large projects now behind me and work slowing down a bit things should move faster. Not _fast_, mind, but _faster_. I don't expect this kind of delay to happen again.

Second, to bring you up to speed without having to go back and read the previous 2 chapters to remember where things stand, a brief summery:

Kettlecrack went back to Red Death Island to figure out how to secure his advantage with the new Red Death dragon, whom he's named Alrekr. That huge dragon, a Gatherer named Smoketail, charged Kettle's mount (a Nightmare called Crush Claw) with bringing more preytooths to the island for him to see. Jaspin, riding his Nadder named Bitequick, arrived at the island to look for the missing dragons and stumbled across Kettlecrack. Their discussion turned to confrontation after Smoketail appeared and frightened Jaspin. Bitequick, seeing her partner in trouble, attacked Smoketail and was killed. This prompted Jaspin to go after Kettlecrack and their sword fight ended with his death.

Shortly after this, Stoick, Gobber and Hiccup learned that Hogknee's ship, Rorik, has been sunk by a dragon and that Jaspin was missing. A search the next day turned up no sign of Jaspin. Hiccup and Toothless discussed this and Hiccup realized that Bitequick may have been vulnerable to the effects of the new Red Death's control. After an emotional discussion between the two, they headed to Red Death Island to continue the search for Jaspin and his dragon. They landed at the beach where the Vikings of Berk fought the first Death and found a hidden weakness in the eye sockets of the dragon's skull. Heading to the top of the nest they found Bitequick, crushed to death. Hiccup retrieved her saddle but there was no sign of Jaspin. When the new Death started coming up the shaft of the nest Toothless grabbed Hiccup in his mouth and jumped off the top of the mountain to head for home and safety. Thus we come to:

* * *

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Broken

Chapter 32: Conclave

The saddle lay on the table, looking too much like a dead thing. Perhaps it was the way the ends of the cut straps curled back on themselves that reminded Hiccup of a dead bird's legs. Maybe it was the way the saddle laid upside down, its normally hidden belly exposed and vulnerable. It might have been nothing more than the memory of removing it from Bitequick's horribly loose and lifeless body. Whatever the cause, staring at the Nadder's saddle filled him with the same feeling of loss he'd felt upon discovering Jaspin's dead dragon.

Stoick seemed as deeply affected by the presence of the saddle as Hiccup. He'd been gazing at the leather device for several silent minutes, his face darkened with anger. The expected questions had been asked and answered, the desired knowledge as unavailable to the father as the son.

Only Toothless ignored the device. He had stretched himself along one wall, dropped his head to his forepaws and stared as silently as Stoick. His large eyes were firmly locked on Hiccup, however. Their experience on Red Death Island had left the Night Fury greatly subdued. Hiccup had tried to speak to his friend only to be rebuffed with a gentle shake of the head and a quietly grunted 'no'. The young man was as troubled by recent events as the dragon and so gave him space.

Berk's chief eventually reached out and touched the saddle, his thick fingers curling around a fleece-lined stirrup. He drew a long breath and said, "I'll have to take this to Hogknee."

Hiccup felt a rush of conflicting desires. He knew Stoick would need to tell Jaspin's father what they had discovered. The notion of explaining what they believed had happened to the boy was, at best, an uncomfortable one. It was possible that Hogknee's reaction to such news might require someone as large, powerful and commanding as Stoick to handle. Vikings were not known for taking bad news well.

On the other hand Hiccup wanted to be there to explain how the suspected fate of Jaspin was not the fault of Bitequick or any of the other known dragons who inhabited Berk. During their return flight he had time to consider how the boy's disappearance might be viewed by those who no longer trusted the island's reptilian inhabitants.

He'd also had time to wonder what his father would do next.

Stoick's low voice almost slipped past him unnoticed. "I thought I wouldn't have to do this anymore."

There was no question in Hiccup's mind as to what his father meant. As hard as reckoning the losses after a raid could be, there was one thing that could make it worse: a ship coming back from a fishing voyage or a hunting expedition to find one of the crew had lost family during their absence. Stoick took it as his duty to inform those who were unaware they'd lost kin and he'd remarked more than once that it bothered him as much as the actual raids. The only consolation was the likelihood that the departed would thereafter be residing in Odin's shining halls, awaiting the arrival of those left behind.

Hiccup opened his mouth to speak and hovered several heartbeats in indecision. He believed it was important for him to be there when Hogknee was told. He also knew he would rather have been flung off a mountain in a dragon's jaws a dozen times over instead. He glanced at Toothless. That calm, steady gaze reassured him.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

The age-old force of habit raised Stoick's hand in dismissal. He shook his head and began with, "No, there's no need..." Looking up at his son, he too found his attention drawn to the large yellow-green eyes watching them silently. His lips pressed firmly closed, his eyes narrowed. New thoughts and old contested within him. The battle was brief but intense and plainly obvious in the corners of his mouth, the creases tightly contained between his eyes.

Berk's leader was forced to change his mind, alter his plans and reconsider his views and priorities. He'd done it more times than he'd care to count in the last half year yet he feared he would never get used to it.

"Aye. Best you come." He nodded to the Night Fury. He hesitated only slightly before he added, "You, too."

* * *

Svala Vapnfjord met them at the door. In actuality, she was sitting on the front steps of the Vapnfjord house. The brightly painted carving of a Nadder's head that decorated the peak of the roof hovered over her like the ghost of her son's dragon. Beyond her, inside the house, they could see Hogknee sitting at their central table. He was slowly drilling the point of his best dagger into the surface while his eyes focused on something beyond anyone else's sight. Jaspin's mother stood slowly as they approached. She took in their appearance, her eyes widening at the sight of Hiccup and his large companion. Her hands absently set aside the torn tunic she'd been mending.

Her quiet but urgent call alerted Hogknee. The fisherman raised his head. The hopeful look on his face turned to dismay as he took notice of their visitors. The dismay turned to something harder when he saw the leather object in Hiccup's grip. He also stood and strode forward until he'd passed his wife and intercepted his guests at the bottom of the steps.

"Hogknee," was all the greeting Stoick gave the man, his voice even and reserved. The chief looked at Jaspin's mother where she still stood on the steps. "Svala." The two of them only stared, waiting to learn the purpose of their visit. Svala's gaze centered on Stoick but Hogknee was focused entirely on the saddle in Hiccup's grip. "I've some bad news."

Hogknee shifted his eyes to the chief. He didn't want bad news. He only wanted to know one thing. "Where's my boy, Stoick?"

Stoick took no offense at the fisherman's tone. He could too easily imagine asking the same question if he were in Hogknee's position. "We don't know yet," he said, allowing the truth of their ignorance to keep some slim hope alive. "But we have found his dragon."

"Bitequick?" Svala raised a hand to her mouth, fearing the worst.

"So where is it?" Hogknee pointed to the saddle, anger starting to simmer beneath his words.

Hiccup understood his role in this conversation. He held the saddle up slightly. "We found her on Red Death Island." He paused and the implication was clear. Svala shook her head slightly, wanting to deny the terrible possibilities that were filling her mind. "I'm sorry. She's... she's dead."

"Dead?" Jaspin's father seemed confused. "What... how could..." He shook his head and balled up his fists. His right hand still held his dagger. "Where's my boy? What was he doing on that island? Who killed his dragon?"

Hiccup suddenly realized that whatever the saddle represented to Hogknee, it wasn't the same as what it represented to him, or to any dragon rider. Wanting to steer the blame away from Berk's dragons, Hiccup spoke without thinking. "The new Red Death." With a frustrated grimace, his father turned on him.

"Hiccup!"

The young man cringed slightly, recalling too late his father's desire to keep that information secret for the time being. "Sorry."

Hogknee was baffled and Svala seemed lost. "The what? What are you talking about?"

Figuring it was too late to backtrack, Hiccup plowed ahead. "Jaspin and Bitequick went to Red Death Island to look for the missing dragons. It turns out the dragons are missing because there's a new Red Death on that island." He heard Stoick's sharp inhale and knew he was only making things worse in his father's estimation. But he was determined to make Hogknee understand where the blame for his son's disappearance lay. "We found Bitequick at the top of the nest. She was dead and..." Images flickered in his mind; the piles of new bones, the Nadder's body, the Fury's tears of fire. "She'd been... she'd been crushed."

The confusion in Hogknee's eyes didn't diminish. He stared intently at the junior Haddock, obviously expecting more. "Crushed?"

"Yes. We both know there's only one thing big enough to crush a dragon the size of a Deadly Nadder."

Still the fisherman stared. If anything, his anger seemed to darken and smolder. When he spoke, his voice was rough and full of menace. "My son was killed by a dragon?"

"Now hold on-" Stoick objected.

"What? No!" Hiccup leaned back slightly, unable to understand how Hogknee had made the leap.

"We don't know that he's dead," Stoick insisted. "He's still missing."

"With his bloody pet smashed to bits!?" Hogknee stabbed his clenched dagger at either Hiccup or the saddle he held, no one was certain. "You really believe that!?"

"Until we find him," Stoick stated firmly, "he is lost. We won't know how he is until we find him."

"Then let's go look for him," Hogknee retorted. "We know where to look. My son is waiting for us."

"We will. But there are other considerations. This new threat-" Stoick paused to glare at his son, " must be dealt with or we're all in danger."

"I don't care about that. I know how to handle raiding dragons. I have to find him." He took a step back, his idea seeming to solidify into action before their eyes.

Stoick held up a forbidding hand and shook his head. "I don't want anyone going there until we're prepared for it."

Hogknee's eyes widened in disbelief. "You can't stop me. I'll take Rorik and..." It was hard to watch, witnessing his belated recall of the inexplicable attack on his ship that left it at the bottom of the harbor. For an instant, the two losses worked to tear his heart into pieces. Then he frowned, his resolve welling up until he could speak through clenched teeth. "I'll find a ship. I'll go alone."

It was Svala's soft voice that cooled his anger and arrested his impulsive motion. "If he's alive and you kill yourself, what good have you done?" She was just as anxious as her husband but held firmly to reason.

Hiccup watched them, seeing for the first time where Jaspin's balance of impetus and patience originated. He felt a sudden and powerful empathy for them. To not know the fate of their son was a stress he could easily imagine, having just experienced it with Toothless' prolonged absence. He could entirely understand Hogknee's desire for action, to address the problem directly and energetically until it had been resolved. But he'd spent most of his life using Svala's approach; calm resolution, knowing that if enough time passed perhaps the solution would eventually be found.

His own thoughts were jarred as the notion came to him: if Jaspin were in fact dead, neither approach would ultimately benefit them. His desire to ease their suffering caused him to draw a breath, open his mouth. His father astounded him by speaking the very words he'd intended to voice.

"Give us some time. I promise we will look for him. He will not be forgotten."

Hogknee stared at him, trying to deal with the idea of setting aside the desire to act on his own behalf. Several tense seconds passed. Finally, he lifted his chin and thrust back his shoulders. Determination put steel in his voice that he seldom bore against a fellow villager and never against his chief. "Aye. And I'll be with you when you go."

Stoick, a veteran of countless potentially violent squabbles between neighbors, didn't react. He held that unwavering gaze, neither flinching nor reprimanding. Then he answered steel with steel.

"We'll see."

A short but courteous nod followed before they turned and left. Hiccup, somewhat unnerved by the encounter, belatedly remembered the object in his grip. He turned back and approached, holding the saddle out.

"Here. This is his."

The look on Hogknee's face shocked him as nothing in their previous conversation had. The anger flashed back to life, centered on the leather seat. When the man's eyes lifted to Hiccup's face he felt an instant's irrational fear for his well being.

"What use is that to me? To him?" The words lashed out, razor sharp and full of venom. "Burn it for all I care." Hogknee turned and strode with quick steps into his house. The door was slammed behind him. Struck to his core and feeling defenseless he could only stand there, the damaged saddle held tightly to his chest. He swallowed, his left hand clenched around the lambskin covered stirrup.

Svala laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and gave him a sad, understanding look. No words were said, but Hiccup felt marginally better for it. They both turned away, she to her home and he to the two who had watched silently.

Stoick was impassive while Toothless seemed to mirror Svala's quiet dismay. Hiccup stood before them, holding the saddle and feeling slightly bruised by the encounter. He wanted to lean against Toothless, touch his neck or his brow. Somehow he felt that, at that moment, seeking such comfort would be immature. He struggled with himself and his wants.

What would he do with Jaspin's saddle?

Stoick turned to Toothless. "This is the passion of Vikings. We care deeply for our own and we act swiftly and surely when they are threatened." He was still using his mediator's voice, calm and measured. "Do you understand this?"

Had Hiccup not been feeling confused and somewhat wounded he would have been pleased at the progress his father had made; conversing with the black dragon as one equal to another. However, when Toothless uttered a quietly grunted "Yes" and nodded in response, he perceived a serious imbalance in Stoick's statement. Did he still not fully understand what Hiccup had been telling him?

His own voice was loud and almost demanding yet it trembled slightly. "Do all dragons understand this?" He couldn't look at his father. Toothless was the only safe place to set his gaze at that raw moment. From the corner of his eye he saw Stoick shift his head and consider his son. Larger eyes met his, the expressive face in which they were set as calm as they'd been since they arrived.

"Yes." Toothless nodded again.

His point made, Hiccup could only stand there and wait for one of them to initiate their next move. Stoick provided by heading toward the edge of the village with measured strides. He and Toothless followed. It was a short walk but it gave the young man time to consider what had happened. He found himself wondering if his father would have something to say about telling Hogknee something Stoick hadn't wanted known. He bit slightly at his bottom lip, trying to think where that information might go and what it could change.

They reached the tree line, mostly out of sight of Berk's many houses. Stoick stopped, Toothless sat and Hiccup held his breath.

His father gazed out across the parts of the village they could see from their vantage. He had tensed up again, Hiccup could see. With the exception of Toothless' presence, being hauled off from the scene of a minor disaster had been a common occurrence throughout his young life. But this time Stoick did not begin berating him as he would a boy. He stood silently, thinking, perhaps searching for better words to express himself to a son who was so close to being seen as an adult by the rest of the tribe. A respected one, at that.

"That... was not a good idea," he finally said. "That knowledge could cause all kinds of problems among the wrong people."

Hiccup was caught between realizing his father was addressing him differently, with respect balancing the disappointment, and wanting to defend what he felt was important. He took a moment, just as Stoick had, to compose himself and be certain he spoke with calm reason. "I'm sorry dad. Really I am. I just didn't want him thinking that Bitequick-"

Stoick had closed his eyes and lowered his head, arresting his son's defense. "What she did or didn't do means nothing against what _we_ need to do now." He raised his head again, stared out at the houses of Berk. "Finding a way to stop that thing is more important than one man's opinion about dragons. If they turn against us again, then no one's opinion is going to matter. We'll lose everything we've gained so far."

"Hiccup."

Father and son turned as one to the Night Fury. Stoick was perplexed to see the black dragon holding its metal pencil up instead of scratching in the dirt with it. The rounded tip was being held against his narrow cheek, just under the eye. He was further puzzled by Hiccup's breathy exclamation of "Oh, yeah!"

"What?"

Hiccup let Jaspin's saddle drop gently to the ground and turned to his father. "Toothless and I may have found something that will help us with that."

With the memory of what his son used to consider 'helpful' balanced against what Hiccup had actually _done_ for the tribe, Stoick kept his voice cool but hopeful. "Oh?"

"We saw the old one, on the beach. The skull is mostly intact. There's a weakness in it we couldn't see when it was alive."

A shiver of excitement flickered up and down Stoick's spine. This could be exactly what they needed!

"The third eye, the one closest to the top of its head, doesn't have a socket. It's just a slightly thicker ring of bone and a hole that opens up to the inside of its head."

The chief paused, considering this. Between the skills needed for hunting game and the skills needed for fighting dragons, the head of a creature was seldom a useful place to target. Skulls were usually too good at protecting the brains within and too small a target besides. Only slaughter of domesticated animals and close quarters combat with dragons ever let one consider the head as a weak spot.

A Red Death, however, was in a class all its own. And as such, an open hole like Hiccup had described was about as close to a weakness as they might ever find. It would have to be seriously considered.

"Good." He nodded, turning the idea over in his mind. "That's good. Well done." He smiled with genuine pride. "Maybe we have a chance after all. I'll need to speak to Einarr, get his opinion. Mord, too. We may even need a new weapon designed. You and Gobber should be in on this."

Toothless made a noise. Hiccup supposed it might have been a word but it wasn't one he recognized. When the dragon had the attention of both his rider and the chief, he flamed a small spot on the ground and brushed away the burnt grass and leaves. In the bare spot he made he scratched three symbols: an oval with six dots, a winged body with a long tail and a wide bodied Viking with a horned helmet. He then drew a circle around the dragon and Viking symbols. Looking up briefly to be certain they were paying attention, he tapped the paired symbols, hesitated and then stepped firmly on the Red Death.

"Of course, Toothless," Stoick assured him, remembering the accord he'd struck with the Fury only days before. "You'll be with us when we go after it."

Hiccup was chagrined to realize he hadn't seen it before. He'd known each side's weaknesses as well as his father did, but he hadn't truly considered where their real strength lay. "No, dad." He and Toothless met eyes, and a clear understanding passed between them in an instant. He could see the Fury's intentions as if they had been his own. "He means we all have to be in this together. _Every_ dragon and _every_ Viking. Neither of us can take it on alone. Right buddy?"

Toothless nodded emphatically.

Stoick held on to his patience as best he could. "I told you, we don't need the whole village involved at this point. Things are too... complicated just now." He waved a hand at the sky. "And besides, the dragons are raiding us again, in case you forgot."

"No, dad, not those dragons," Hiccup insisted. "He means the young ones."

"Young... what does..."

"Toothless explained it to me," he said in a rush. "Baby dragons and injured dragons both give off a smell that makes other dragons want to protect and feed them. That's how the Red Death controls other dragons. It makes the same smell. The dragons don't think about it, they just react." He pointed to Toothless. "But the young dragons that aren't old enough to breed are immune to the smell. Those are the dragons we need to help us." He turned to Toothless, offering his idea directly to him. "Those dragons probably _want_ to help us."

"Yes! Yes!" There was no doubting the Fury's answer, not when he stood and stretched his wings and clenched the turf with his claws.

Stoick was taken slightly aback by the black dragon's energetic display, but it was another detail that gave him pause. "Smell?"

Hiccup nodded. "Yeah, that's what he told me." When his father didn't say anything for a moment, he stressed, "We need their help. We _have_ to do this together."

Holding up a hand to forestall further entreaties, Stoick answered, "Alright, alright." But it still took him a moment to deal with what that meant to his plans.

Plans? With a grunt of frustration, Stoick pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. Old thoughts kept trying to fit themselves into their new situation. As much as he wanted to fall back on familiar ways, the memory of the first Red Death exploding from the side of a mountain would remind him of all that had changed. "Look," he said as he raised his head. "This..." Questions came to him, one after another. How would they get there? Who could he trust? How would they attack? How would they defend? He felt overwhelmed as never before. "I need... I need to think this through."

Think it through? Now he sounded like Hiccup! Vikings knew pummeling, not pondering!

"You need another council," Hiccup said plainly. Then he stepped to his dragon, laid a hand on its neck and added, "Of both sides."

A faded ghost of anger rose up. That was insane! A meeting of Vikings and dragons? As if they were equals?

Stoick was not the thinker his son was. He could plan, but it wasn't his greatest skill. He could foresee some things as events shaped themselves. But in that instant Stoick suddenly saw, with startling clarity, the future of Berk. Hiccup and Toothless would be a force to reckon with, once they came into their own. His son's suggestion that both sides meet to discuss the battle against the new Red Death was a thought no other Viking on Berk could have had. And it came to him so easily.

Hiccup had been made for this time in Berk's history.

"Aye," he whispered, struck by the revelation. "A council." Vikings and dragons, conferring, planning, fighting side by side. It was- "No." Thinking may not have been his greatest strength but dealing with his tribesmen was. "Not a council. A conclave, to ensure our secrecy." He immediately began making a mental list of those he could trust to bring, those who could handle the truth about dragons. It was not a long one.

Stoick turned to Toothless, his mind moving to its proven strengths. "You say there are dragons here that aren't affected by that thing? The Red Death?"

Toothless nodded.

The chief paused a moment before asking, "Can we trust them? If we all meet, face to face, will they behave themselves?"

The Night Fury considered this a moment. He looked down at his charred bit of ground, reaching with his drawing spike as if to scratch out a reply. Then he seemed to change his mind. Instead of drawing, he moved closer to the chief, who held his ground calmly. When the dragon slowly lifted his rounded spike and touched its tip to Stoick's throat, Hiccup's breath caught. He had no idea what his friend was up to. He was further confounded when Stoick nodded, withdrew his own dagger and placed the flat of the blade against Toothless' neck, the Fury having lifted his head slightly to accommodate him.

"Uhhh..."

Stoick sheathed his blade, put a hand on the dragon's shoulder and said, "Find all those you can trust. Bring them to..." He drew a blank for a moment. He turned to Hiccup. "We need a meeting place, close by but out of sight."

Hiccup blinked. The answer was obvious to him. "The cove."

"Yes. The cove, just before sundown."

Toothless nodded his agreement. He sheathed his drawing spike, grasped his controllers and leapt into the air. Father and son were left to watch his form shrink against the afternoon sky.

Stoick placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I hope we're ready for this. It could go very badly if we're not careful." Hiccup said nothing, still watching Toothless' quickly shrinking silhouette. He gazed at him, pride blooming in his chest. "You've done well. You may have found the answer to our survival against this thing."

Hiccup looked uncomfortable. As his best friend finally disappeared from sight, he glanced down and muttered, "Yeah."

"What?"

He shook his head slightly. "We're going back," he said darkly.

Stoick nodded. "It'll be alright." He patted the young man's shoulder. "We've done this before."

Hiccup looked up, dismay tugging at his features. "That's the whole problem! We're going right back to 'kill on sight!' Dragons are causing problems so dragons have to die!"

"We're not going after the dragons. We're going after their leader."

"It's not their leader! It's a... a parasite. It tricks them into serving it!"

"Aye," Stoick agreed, not understanding his son's distress. "So we kill it."

"But it's still a dragon, dad! Why can't we-"

"It's not a dragon, Hiccup. It's a monster. A parasite, as you say. It's harming us by using them. We all need it gone."

"But what if we're missing a chance to reason with it? What if we tried talking to it? Maybe it would listen if-"

"When a mosquito bites you, do you reason with it?"

Hiccup stared, uncertain.

"A mosquito is tiny, insignificant. It bites you, bothers you, you swat it. You kill it without thought."

Hiccup blinked.

"What do you think we are to a Red Death? Do you think it gives a moment's thought to something as tiny as us? We invade its nest, disturb its home. We bite at it with our swords and axes. What do you think it's going to do? Talk to us?"

Hiccup lowered his gaze, unable to argue the point.

When Stoick spoke again, his voice became heavy and tinged with regret. "Believe me, Hiccup. I've had some time to think about what happened on that beach. We call it 'the battle' but it was no battle. It was a slaughter." He took a deep breath, settled himself. "Until you showed up." He tilted Hiccup's head up with a finger. "We're Vikings. Fierce warriors. Untamable and unstoppable against any foe, even dragons. But compared to that thing, we were mosquitoes. And if the mosquitoes want to live another day, they have to kill the monster that's swatting them."

He looked away. "I... I guess."

Stoick glanced up at the empty sky. "How does Toothless feel about it?"

Hiccup closed his eyes, drew a quiet breath. "The same way you do."

"So. That leaves us with the next step." Now the chief stared out across his village. "Convincing a handful of mosquitoes that their leader isn't stark raving mad."

As his father headed back toward the village, Hiccup picked up Jaspin's saddle and glumly followed. They were missing an opportunity, he was certain. It was the most important opportunity they would ever have and after the first blow was struck it would vanish.

He found himself wishing once again he could speak the language of the dragons. It was the only way he could see to try reasoning with the enormous creature. Assuming both Toothless and his father were wrong about it.

If they weren't, if it really didn't see Vikings as anything other than annoying pests then it _would_ have to die. Or be driven off.

He couldn't believe he might have to advocate killing another dragon to solve Berk's problems.

* * *

It was a short flight for Two Hearts to locate the first of his new nest mates. Yet in that brief span he still had time to think.

Two Hearts often found himself comparing his new life with Featherstone to his past. As he circled the preytooth nest looking for Kin he felt a strong flare of memory. He remembered the end of his hatchling days, looking over the edge of his egg nest. Fear and excitement had both bitten his liver hard and were tugging it in opposite directions. The short, gliding flights he'd taken among the nests with other hatchlings were soon to be behind him. His legs and wings had quivered as he hesitated, ready to launch himself for his first fledgling flight. New freedoms and new falls had awaited him.

He felt that same quivering in his liver now as he prepared for a flight no Kin had ever contemplated. Kin and preytooths were about to take on a Gatherer together and he was to be First Hunter of the fight. He felt strongly they could succeed where his sire had failed. They had the advantage of the preytooths and the new knowledge unwillingly given by the Great Eel.

There was much to lose, however; things as precious to him now as his own life. His sire's story could still be his own if they weren't careful. Such thoughts served to quench the building fire in his liver.

Yellowbreath was the first of his new nest mates to be found. She was in her customary place outside 'Legs of fish's woodcave. She was deep in thought, her eyes slitted against the bright mid-day light. When his shadow passed over her she raised herself enough to call an inviting "Soft tailwinds!" He landed carefully, still not willing to risk embarrassing himself or injuring others with a badly done slide-stop or poorly aimed diving drop.

"Swift hunting," he growled, putting urgency in his voice. Yellowbreath's eyes widened and he suspected she already had some idea of the intent of his visit. "I must call the nest. All Kin who call this place their nest must be present before sunfall."

"Where?"

"The hollow where I became Two Hearts."

The stonebelly rolled her short legs beneath her. "I will carry the call to the far shore."

"No," Two Hearts shook his head, unaware his habit with the preytooths had grown so strong. "We can only call those who have not reached breeding age."

Yellowbreath stilled, turning that knowledge over in her mind. "So few. To what purpose?"

"We have seen a soft spot, hidden in the Gatherer's head. The preytooths are coming as well. This is to be a new kind of fight. We must speak about it before teeth and claws are bared."

The weight of such knowledge struck his nest mate hard. Her thoughts ranged far ahead of her, seeing the importance of what her nest's watcher was telling her. Then she huffed in distress.

"What of Swimmer?"

Two Hearts' wings twitched. "What of her?"

Yellowbreath groaned sadly. "You have not seen her," she stated. "She's hiding in a cave, near the big shore-pool on the sunrise side." She stepped closer, nosed him gently. She was one of the more affectionate Kin in the nest. "I fear her fire dims. She has built no nest this season."

He desired no distractions at such an important time and his impatience rumbled quietly below his words. "She's safer there, nest or no nest. I have no wish to disturb her."

She blinked slowly, digesting his words. When she spoke it was with the faintest thrumming. He doubted preytooths would have been able to hear it. "Two Hearts, go to her. See her. Scent her. Then you will understand."

The ghostwing wanted to resist but Yellowbreath's words pinned him down. He cared much for Swimmer. He'd feared she had been drawn to Fire Nest and enthralled so hearing she was safe felt good. Yet the stonebelly's urging could not be ignored, especially when she added, "I will carry your words to all unbred Kin. We shall all be there."

Two Hearts dipped his head to acknowledge her. "Thank you Yellowbreath. I value your words."

"And Swimmer will doubtless value yours as well."

Pushing aside his uncertainty he gripped his sticks and took to the air, not realizing he'd done so without looking or thinking about it.

The large shore-pool to which Yellowbreath referred was an easy landmark to find. The preytooths sometimes brought their woodfish there when they traveled on the waters. There was no evidence of either preytooths or their clumsy wooden fish today. The cave the stonebelly spoke of was harder to find. He'd not known there was such a place near the shore-pool. He would have to find Swimmer by scent.

That turned out to be far easier than he'd expected, though he immediately wished it hadn't. The scent was disturbing and would have otherwise served as a warning to keep away. The message on the winds spoke strongly of a brightscale searching for a mate yet there was a sour, forbidding taint to it. Something was certainly wrong with Swimmer if she was sending such confusing signals.

The cave was in fact an enlarged prey burrow, long ago dug out to suit Kin who wished a temporary place to sleep safely. Over many and more seasons it had been enlarged until Kin as large as a firescale could rest within. It faced the waters nearby and it was from this direction that Two Hearts approached. He called loudly but with every tone of deference he could manage, "Soft tailwinds!"

Bright sparking fire erupted from the cave and blazed past him. A wordless roar followed, heavy with forbidding but deeply scored with pain. Two Hearts considered a moment before landing a respectful distance from the cave's opening. He was going against his instincts but Yellowbreath's words pushed him forward. With cautious steps he approached, mindful he was trespassing. He was inviting scorn and perhaps conflict. If Swimmer lashed out at him, he would leave. Her scent and the concern it raised in him would not let him leave without at least seeing her.

He saw movement within, heard the faint rustle of wings and talons against stone. A single eye abruptly reflected the day's light, deep within the sleeping nest.

"I am Two Hearts, Kin and kin to Swimmer. I wish to see her, scent her. I am worried for her. So are others. May I approach?"

A low, pained moan crept out, barely reaching his ear canals. "You are too late. You are the wrong breed. They are lost to me." A sharp screech raked the air. "Lost!"

Despite the fact that Swimmer hadn't signaled any kind of invitation, Two Hearts moved closer to the cave. "They are not lost, not truly. They are only enthralled. We are going to free them soon."

The brightscale erupted again, more forcefully. Her fire slammed into the ground a mere length from his forelegs, throwing debris and scorching plants. He briefly raised a wing to cover his head. "They are lost!" She was silent a moment as the air cleared. "I can feel them fading," she added mournfully.

Two Hearts realized they were not catching the same wind in their wings. "Who is fading? Who is lost?"

More distressed chittering answered him, empty of words but full of misery. He waited patiently. Eventually she spoke. "I found no mate in the last season of green. Nor the one before. It was hard but many have flown those winds. I waited."

He was starting to understand what her scent had been trying to tell him.

"I thought this season would be different. No Gatherer, clear air for the whole nest. But I found no one. The Great Eel returned from death. It called and I nearly went back."

"It is not the Great Eel, it is a new Gatherer."

She did not seem to hear him. "I felt them inside me. My eggs. My hatchlings to be. I was ready to bring them forth in freedom. But I found no mate. Now it is too late. They are fading." The light reflecting in her eye lowered as she sank to the cave floor. "They are lost to me."

Two Hearts had heard of this. Most any female Kin would, at some point in their flight, go through this loss. As young as Swimmer was, this was probably the first clutch of eggs she could not bring forth.

"Swimmer," he grunted softly. "I have known loss. Terrible, wing snapping loss." He moved closer and was encouraged by her stillness. "It was the Great Eel that caused our pain, our loss. We are rid of it."

"No, it has returned."

"It is a new Gatherer. Its flight name is Smoketail." Closer still he came, slowly and carefully. "It means to replace the Great Eel and has already begun to enthrall all of Fire Nest." At the entrance he stopped, knowing better than to block a Kin's means of escape from a confined place. He folded his wings tightly and sank to the ground, his eyes locked on the brightscale smothered in shadows. "I am calling my Kin to join the preytooths. Together we will ground it. Fire Nest will live in clean air again."

His words reached her, as he'd hoped they would.

"Join the preytooths?" She shifted slightly, turning her other eye to him. "Bonding?"

Two Hearts hesitated, seeing a possibility that could benefit more than just the poor brightscale hiding from enthrallment and lamenting her lost offspring. "A bonding of necessity. Kin and preytooths must come together for this fight. I have one preytooth in mind as a match for you."

Swimmer twitched. "A preytooth partner?" Her legs moved beneath her. "For me?"

"As I said, we must come together for this fight. We will likely draw blood against enthralled Kin." He paused again, considering the risk he was taking in bringing her into their plans. "We must return to Fire Nest soon. The call will be strong." He drew in a deep breath, trying to judge her state. "You may be able to resist, as you are freshly beyond... that point."

Now he could smell the tension coming from her, the barest hints of agitation as she sank her teeth into the problem he brought her. Would she help him carry it? Or would she let it go and slide back into her safe hole in the ground?

It did not take long for her to decide. Swimmer rose up and took a step forward. He stood as well, taking a step back.

"I will join your hunt, Two Hearts." Deep breaths steadied her against the weight of her decision. "I will do it for the memory of the faded ones."

* * *

Hiccup had a hard time setting aside his discomfort. There were too many people in his cove. His and Toothless' cove. And the scorched ground was still covered in the Night Fury's first self-taught pictographs. Granted, it had been slightly amusing to watch Snotlout and the twins stare in bewilderment at all the strange drawings in the dirt. Fishlegs had been confused at first, too. As the plump teen walked around, examining the pictures he became more and more agitated, muttering to himself. Finally he had raised his head and stared at Hiccup with a worrisome and almost accusatory expression. He said nothing but words were hardly necessary. Hiccup could plainly read 'I know what these are' and 'why didn't you tell me' in his friends eyes.

Asgeirr had left Snotlout and moved to drink from the spring. Getting his fill, he'd settled half in and half out of the water. Folkvardr and Thunderguts had settled close by to rumble quietly to each other. Hiccup would almost have given his other leg to be able to know what they were saying.

Strangely, the members of the dragon training class he'd worried about the most had so far been the quietest. Like Fishlegs, Ruffnut and Tuffnut had been walking around the area, looking at all the pictures scratched in the dirt. Even stranger, Bjalki and Bjarki were imitating their riders, each of the Zippleback's heads scrutinizing the pictures around them.

Astrid and Snotlout were similarly quiet. Hiccup suspected they were a little intimidated at being asked to participate in only the third conclave Stoick the Vast had ever called.

As yet none of the other villagers called to come had arrived. To allay suspicions there was anything unusual going on, each person Stoick had approached was coming separately in their own time. Gobber had volunteered to go with Freygerd as her age made it harder for her to walk the distance easily.

Even though he felt like a cherished place of safety had been violated by the presence of the others, Hiccup knew the evening was going to get more difficult. At least for him. It was finally settling in his mind how important this meeting would be. There would only be eleven Vikings present, not counting himself or his father. He felt fairly confident his class mates would take the news relatively well. The rest were much harder to guess.

Spitelout arrived next, hesitating briefly at the sight of the teen dragon riders. He gave his brother an inquisitive look to which Stoick declined to respond. Sweeping his gaze across the scorched ground and the strange figures drawn in the exposed dirt, his eyes landed on Hiccup. He gave the young man a look as well, but Hiccup had no luck interpreting it.

Two dragons called from beyond the rim of the cove. The three lounging by the water raised their heads and Thunderguts gave voice in answer. Another Gronckle came buzzing over the lip of the high wall. It was followed almost immediately by a Nadder with an unusual purple cast to its scales. Hiccup remembered seeing the Nadder around the village during his convalescence and wondering if anyone would be attracted to the rarity of its coloring enough to befriend it. No one was.

Stoick watched the two new dragons with cool interest as they landed near the others. Both Astrid and Snotlout seemed to get a bit tense with 'feral' dragons near their own. There was a great deal of grumbling and chattering between the five beasts. Stoick's eyes narrowed slightly as the purple Nadder moved to stand before Asgeirr and lowered its spiked head until the tip of its snout touched the ground. The Monstrous Nightmare stood long enough to touch his own long muzzle to the top of the Nadders head. He made a gruff coughing sound before he lay back down and the purple dragon raised its head. The Nadder seemed oddly energized by the interaction, as it now bounced slightly on its heavy legs.

Spitelout came to sit near Stoick on a large boulder. "What do you make of that?"

In a completely neutral tone the chief replied, "I'm sure I don't know." His brother and lieutenant gave him a puzzled look but said nothing more.

Astrid, who knew of the true status of dragon intellect and certainly knew the source of the artwork littering the floor of the cove, had apparently kept her knowledge to herself as she continued to learn to interact with Folkvardr. Since arriving she had been silent yet her expression betrayed a mind awhirl in thought. After the two 'feral' dragons arrived without causing any disruptions, she sought Hiccup's eyes. When he finally noticed her stare she approached him. Snotlout, seeing this and probably assuming one of the two knew what was going on, followed her without asking.

Quietly and with one eye on Stoick who sat just out of earshot, she asked, "Is this what I think it is?"

Hiccup glanced at a completely attentive Snotlout. His cousin must have figured _some_ parts out for himself. Despite being honored with the invitation to the conclave he had not bragged nor swaggered once since dismounting his Nightmare. Ordinarily it would have been inconceivable for Snotlout to pass up a chance to strut under such circumstances. Over the past half year, however, Hiccup had noticed a small amount of maturation in the boy who had once been his personal bully and tormentor. He couldn't help but wonder if the trend would perhaps continue and Snot might become a decent guy after all. At least as far as dragons were concerned.

"Partially," Hiccup answered her. "But there's more to this than telling secrets."

"Secrets?" Snotlout once again signaled a distinct change in attitude from Berk's dragon fighting days. He also kept his voice low and considerate. There was no disdain in his tone, only genuine confusion. Hiccup sensed the young man was truly grasping to understand what those around him seemed to already know. An urge struck him to reach out to his cousin, to help them move away from their personal history. He felt certain it would benefit them both.

With a quick glance at his father, Hiccup said softly, "Snotlout, there's a lot going on that no one knows about. Yet. But it has to be handled carefully. And it's going to take... a new... a new way of thinking."

Snotlout's brows knit as he considered those words. Despite the unspoken understanding that _thinking_ was not his strong point, the wide-shouldered lad seemed to understand that larger concerns were at hand. "What do you mean," he asked with plain concern.

Hiccup focused entirely on Snotlout, wanting to reinforce the seriousness of his words. "We had to stop thinking of dragons as our enemies. We did that, and now they're our friends. But there's something else about them that's even more important. And everyone needs to know it because there's a new threat to Berk." He stopped there, letting Snotlout take in two different problems at once. Just as the frown started to form on the Jorgenson's wide face, Hiccup added, "Dragons are smarter than we thought. In fact they're as smart as we are."

"Oy, Ingifast!" Spitelout shouted as the shipwright appeared at the cove's entrance, Mord at his side. The two men waved as they approached.

Turning his attention back to Hiccup from the momentary distraction, Snotlout seemed slightly distressed at the news. "Smarter?"

'Smarter' had always been the one thing everyone knew Hiccup held over Snotlout. Snot was the epitome of Viking offspring and essentially the opposite of everything Hiccup was. Back when the heir to the chief had started apprenticing to the master blacksmith and getting praise for his creativity, Snotlout had tried to overtake his cousin in that aspect and failed miserably. It didn't take him long to decide smarts weren't important if he had all the other qualities Vikings valued.

Now Berk's chances of survival and success were hugely improved as a result of Hiccup's mental abilities. And that put Snotlout's sense of self-worth a notch lower than he wanted. To have Hiccup tell him that dragons, beasts they had learned to tame and use for their own benefits, were _smarter_ than they thought didn't sound terribly appealing. In fact, it implied that Asgeirr was potentially as smart (or smarter) than Snotlout.

How could that be a good thing?

Hiccup sensed the shift in Snotlout's attitude and leaned forward slightly, his expression as serious as it ever got. "This is important. The dragons are our friends. They want to help us. But we have to understand their true nature. We have to meet them as equals, as partners."

The reassurances he heard didn't quell Snotlout's misgivings. He looked at Asgeirr, lounging at the edge of the pond and muttering to the other dragons. Smarter? How could he ride a dragon if it was smarter than him?

"Snotlout." The strangely imperative tone Hiccup used was so out of place that it managed to drag his attention back. The dark look on that freckled face was out of place, the hardness in his eyes a bit disconcerting. When had Hiccup learned to get so serious? "Asgeirr knows you. He chose you as his partner. He's your friend now and that's not going to change, you understand?" Snotlout stared, still trying to fit the whole of this exchange into what he knew of dragons, of his cousin. When he didn't respond Hiccup asked more intensely, "Do you understand? Nothing about how Asgeirr feels about you is going to change. But you need-" Hiccup broke off and corrected himself. "We _all_ need to understand that Asgeirr and the other dragons are our equals. They are _people_. They have language and culture. They have names and history."

Language. Names. Those two words worked their way into Snotlout's head, turned to stones and settled heavily into his gut.

Somehow, on some level he'd never admitted to or acknowledged, he'd had an inkling of what Hiccup was saying. His dragon had learned so quickly, come to anticipate his rider in so many things. It was as if they were of one mind. 'Smarter' never surfaced as an explanation because he'd never sought one. Things simply were as they were. Why look for causes when the effects were beneficial?

The tremor that had found its way to his hands the first time Hiccup had placed his over the snout of a Monstrous Nightmare came back to him. The unnerving tingle of real fear lit across the muscles of his chest and made breath harder to come by. Hiccup was changing the world again.

He managed to say the only thing he could. "OK."

Hiccup smiled reassuringly, going so far as to put a hand on his shoulder and say, "Just so you're not taken by complete surprise."

Snotlout nodded. This conclave thing was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought. "Yeah."

Ingifast and Mord preceded a few more dragons. Whether by instinct or some mutual understanding that simple precautions were wise, each race chose to gather with its own. While the master weapons trainer and the shipwright joined Stoick in low conversation, one of the reptilian newcomers gave a most unusual display. Bjarki and Bjalki became quite attentive when a second Hideous Zippleback landed near the pond. All the other dragons ceased noise and motion as the two double-headed dragons squared off. They approached until each pair of heads nearly touched.

A soft gurgling growl could be heard as the two large creatures regarded each other. Then they slowly closed the distance between the two bodies. As they came together each head and neck gently twined around its opposite. The growling became louder as the paired necks and heads began to sway slightly, the base of the necks pressed against each other until the two dragons could not get any closer. Soon all four necks and heads had curled and looped around and around until it looked like they would become permanently entangled. Every Viking that witnessed the spectacle bore the same stunned expression. Except Hiccup, who looked more bemused than confused.

Slowly and carefully the two dragons eventually separated, choosing to pay more attention to each other than either the nearby Vikings or their fellow dragons. Fishlegs seemed to shake free of the spell drawn over the humans and marched directly to Hiccup. The junior Haddock smiled slightly at his approach until he saw the look on his friend's face. Fishlegs poked him with a thick finger and said with unusual force, "You've been holding out on us."

"Only recently," was the sheepish reply.

The cooper dug something from under his belt. "Thunderguts made me a carving. A _carving_, Hiccup!" He pressed the small wooden form into his friend's outstretched hand. "I've been trying to figure out what it means ever since and now I see this!" He waved at the two Zipplebacks. "There's something major going on with the dragons, I'm sure of it."

Hiccup scowled at the chewed fragment of a stave, turning it until he could see the form of a Red Death. He handed it back to Fishlegs. "This isn't a carving, Legs. It's a warning."

"Warning?" Tuffnut's voice came from just behind Hiccup. "Let me see that." Apparently the male twin had seen all he wanted of the drawings around the cove and had quietly moved up behind him. His hand reached out and plucked up the bit of wood from Hiccup's grip. Hiccup let it go and looked up at the sky. It would be dusk soon. He moved closer to where his father sat. Stoick was deferring Mord's questions and the weapon's trainer was getting frustrated with having to wait.

"Dad, you figure we'll need a fire?"

Stoick nodded once. "Aye. Once we're all here there's to be a good bit of discussion. Might take a while."

Snotlout and Astrid, who had both watched Hiccup closely, helped him take up the task of collecting deadwood while Fishlegs described Thundergut's strange behavior to Tuffnut. Ruffnut, he had noticed, was still staring at the two Zipplebacks as though nothing else was worth her attention.

Einarr the master huntsman appeared while they were preparing the firewood. He was one of the few on the island who came close to Stoick's width and height without having nearly as much muscle. While trim and hearty of body, his appetite could only be surpassed by the largest of Vikings. Or, perhaps, a dragon. Hiccup had once thought him a better example of what a True Viking should be. He took his craft of hunting to heights no one before had known. Stalking a deer was an art, downing a dragon was almost poetry. His intensely serious demeanor could sometimes put off his fellow villagers but generally he was looked up to as an excellent example of how Vikings should carry themselves.

Unlike the rest of his fellow villagers, who'd brought only their own small personal weapons of daggers or other small blades, he'd come armed with his short sword sheathed across his back. When he saw the dragons assembled by the water's edge he froze. His arm jerked upward toward the grip of his weapon until he noticed the other Vikings peacefully gathered nearby. With a mistrustful eye on the lounging beasts, he walked to where the other folks had settled.

As the light started to age in the east, a few more dragons came to land with the others. Hiccup noticed there were no other breeds among them beyond the most common ones, those that had carried out the majority of the raids. He had only a moment to consider this before Spitelout shouted, "Gobber!"

The master smith, with his peg leg hindering his movements on rough ground, had taken longer to make the brief journey. With him was Freygerd, whose age similarly slowed her progress to the cove. Gobber helped her over some of the more difficult spots on the rock fall that allowed access to the enormous hole.

As the smith and the village elder approached, Stoick called to his son. Hiccup came to him, his nervousness obvious. "Hiccup," he said quietly, "I need you to follow my lead. I will call on you to speak but I want you to keep quiet otherwise. I will be explaining everything to them, everything you insisted they be told. But I will bring them to the knowledge the way I think best. Understand?"

"What about Toothless?"

Stoick regarded his son patiently. Thoughts of the unerring loyalty to the Fury convinced him the boy would someday be an excellent father.

"I doubt we'll need to worry about his part in this. I suspect he will handle it as well as you will."

Hiccup had to pause a moment to take in the compliment his father had so casually given. Before he could speak, two more dragons dropped down into the cove. It was Toothless and another Nadder. The Nadder looked a bit worn, as though it had been having a rough time lately; its scales weren't as bright and clean as they would normally be for such a meticulous breed. It also seemed quite nervous once it landed.

"Alright then," Stoick breathed to himself as he stood. He raised his hands silently and the villagers gathered closer to him. Before he spoke he turned his eyes once more to the Night Fury, watching as the black dragon mingled briefly with the others by the pond. He cast a quick glance at Hiccup, seeing his son watch his friend closely yet staying by his chief's side. Hiccup fidgeted slightly, still nervous about how this meeting would go. Stoick couldn't fault him for it. He had concerns of his own.

Toothless walked briskly around the pond toward the villagers, followed by all the other dragons. When they were relatively close, but not too close, he sat. The rest of his troop did the same, each taking its ease and making itself comfortable. Only the last Nadder that had flown in with him remained standing. Toothless growled softly to it and it finally sank to the scorched ground. The Fury turned his large luminous eyes to Stoick and nodded once. He nodded back. That was the conclave's first warning of what was to come.

Most missed it, however. Einarr was obviously not happy with whatever was going on, Ingifast was confused and Mord was looking thoughtful. Gobber, he noticed, seemed to highly anticipate the events to come this evening. And Freygerd had a thoroughly satisfied smile on her face. As her eyes left the black dragon's sleek form and met her chief's she nodded and smiled wider.

Having worked out where to aim his arguments and what support he could expect, Stoick spoke.

"You know the threat we face," he began simply. "We weren't able to come to an agreement on how to deal with it. Since then Hiccup has learned something new about our enemy, something that may help us. He has found a weakness..." He paused to glance at his son. "... and a strength."

He paced away from his rocky seat and around the small gathering. "The weakness is the easier issue to pursue. It's a physical flaw in its skull that we couldn't see when it was alive." He nodded to Hiccup. "How did you describe it to me?"

The young man started slightly at being addressed. "Oh. Uh, it's the eyes. The last eye, the, eh, last... the one furthest from it's, uh... nose. There's no socket behind it. No bone or anything. Just a hole."

Several faces became thoughtful, though Einarr seemed doubtful. "A difficult weakness to use. Taking advantage will be almost impossible. The angle is bad, the target is still defended and I cannot think of a single weapon that would penetrate enough to be worth the effort. Except a spear, maybe."

"A spear's too light," Gobber responded. "To get through scales with a blade you need a heavy weapon powered by large muscles."

Spitelout spoke up next. "We've never bothered going for the eyes on a dragon. Not when you need quick, killing blows." He turned to Mord. "Several archers, all aiming for a single eye that's almost as big as I am... that would be workable."

Einarr shook his head. "Come now, you know the first strike will enrage the beast. Unless they all hit at once, the first touch of pain it feels will have it moving after us. We'd only get one chance and it would be nearly impossible to get that close with enough archers to begin with."

With a raised hand, Stoick halted the brief exchange. "That's only the first problem." He hesitated, closed his eyes for a moment. Hiccup saw his jaw clench briefly before he gave a heavy sigh and pushed forward. "The biggest problem is what we argued about before. If we go there and try to attack this thing, we'll be committing the same... folly we did last time."

Ingifast quietly objected with, "But if we know about this weakness, can't we-"

"I beat on those eyes with a war hammer," Snotlout interrupted, surprising everyone. Including himself, it seemed. His old mannerisms surfaced for a moment in a wide grin. "It was glorious. I stood right there and _beat_ on them." The grin faded. "It didn't care. It shook me off like a flea."

Stoick nodded, seeing his nephew understood the situation even if he couldn't quite express it clearly. "Snotlout's right. What we did last time won't work this time. We were lucky, that's all."

"Then why call this conclave, Stoick," Einarr asked plainly. "What use is this knowledge?"

The chief faced him squarely. "Because, as I said, Hiccup has found more than this weakness. He's found a strength."

Freygerd's first words of the conclave were light, almost teasing. She sounded like she knew what he would say next and delighted in leading him to speak the words. "What strength, Stoick? How shall we win this fight?"

He glanced her way for an instant, seeing her expression and remembering where he figured his support would be. He didn't smile but he did feel an easing of his burden. There were those besides his son and the Fury who would embrace this strange new idea. It helped to give him the will to speak the truth against centuries of belief.

"Our new allies." He said nothing more, knowing the notion of 'allies' would need a moment to take hold. Berk had been on its own for so long, without any contact from other tribes or traders. The entire notion had been slowly erased from the village's thoughts. Indeed, all those present stared at him in silence, trying to work out his meaning. Except for a notable few, that is. It was his brother, Spitelout who finally found his voice.

"What allies?"

"Them." And with a raised hand he set Berk upon her new course. He pointed at the dragons, sitting together and staring at the Vikings with uncanny patience.

The reactions told him much. Astrid gasped slightly, realizing the importance of the knowledge she'd recently gained from his son. The other young folk, riders themselves and thus disposed toward reliance upon their former enemies, reacted mildly. The rest split themselves into two camps: those willing to hear more and those unwilling. Einarr did exactly as he expected and objected first.

"What use are they?"

Stoick had prepared. He had thought hard about how he would explain what he'd been shown. His words were as thoroughly planned as he could make them. He gave the master huntsman a faint smile. "They're dragons. They fly, their bodies are armored and they breathe fire." Einarr didn't understand. Neither did several others. He took the next step. "But they are more than dragons. They are companions." He pointed to Snotlout. "They are guardians." He gestured to Astrid, who seemed slightly dazed at what she was hearing from her chief, from Hiccup's father. "They are protectors." He pointed to his son, the person he suspected was paying the closest attention to his words. "And they have agreed to be our allies." He turned deliberately toward the Night Fury. "Haven't you, Toothless?"

Whispers quickly turned to mutters and confused grunts. The sleek black dragon nodded at him and strode forward. He sat himself next to Stoick, facing Berk's council. The large Viking turned back to stare at his closest advisors. He raised his voice and spoke with the authority that his own father had instilled in him as a boy. "Toothless is the leader of the dragons here on Berk. He and I have an accord. We are now allies and we will defeat the Red Death together."

He waited for the backlash. It was inevitable and he would face it with all the determination he could claim. The stunned silence that followed his announcement took a bit longer to break than he expected. He watched Einarr closely but noticed that Hiccup had been confused by his statement of Toothless being the leader of the dragons. He briefly wondered if his son hadn't known or if he hadn't expected Stoick to learn of it. Finally, with a glance at the dragon in question, Spitelout spoke up again.

"What... what are you saying?"

Freygerd's eyes glittered, Gobber looked somewhat surprised and Ingifast was simply bewildered. But Spitelout was clearly worried and Einarr was slipping into some darker state of mind. Mord only shook his head slightly.

The master huntsman finally protested his leader's statement. "You cannot have an accord with a... a beast!" He stabbed an accusing finger at the dragon by his side.

"AYE!" Stoick boomed, gaining a startled blink from the man. "That would be foolishness! And _that_ is the strength that Hiccup discovered. Dragons can and will be our allies because they are _not_ beasts." He drew a great breath and said the words he'd not yet said aloud despite his own new belief. "They are people, like us." He glanced at Hiccup. "Just... shaped different." He was inordinately pleased to see the sudden, surprised smile light his son's face at using his words to help sway the discussion.

"What bedevilment is this?" Fear touched Einarr's words and widened his eyes. He pointed again to the Fury, his hand shaking slightly. "What has that creature done to you?"

Stoick took a single step forward and snarled. The idea that he was under some malevolent control was too great an insult to bear. "He's done nothing to me!" he roared. "My mind is my own!" The huntsman's eyes widened further just as a soft growl from the dragon came to his ears. He straightened, getting a grip on his temper.

A silent moment slid by as he collected himself. A slight movement to his left told him the Fury had matched his step and continued to stand by his side. He pointed to the dragon. "He's the one who told me of the new Red Death. He's the reason we've been forewarned."

Another moment passed. A single word had lodged in each mind, one that went against all reason.

"Told?" The dismay in Spitelout's voice would have bothered Stoick under any other circumstances.

"Yes." He kept his eyes focused exclusively on Einarr. "Told."

"Toothless spoke to you?" Gobber's voice was filled with wonderment and for an instant he felt a smile try to pull at his lips. He fought it, knowing how out of place it would be.

"No, he can't speak as we do." Stoick pointed down at the pictographs covering the ground. "He writes."

"Writes?" Freygerd practically gasped the word, looking down at the ground and seeming to understand what she was seeing.

"Yes." A memory came to him, perfect and whole. He addressed the elder, pulling her attention back to him. "What was the name of that girl back when I was a lad, the one we lost to the winter sickness when she was nine? She was born deaf but learned to talk with her hands and with writing."

Freygerd tilted her head slowly. "Amena." She smiled. "One of the brightest children I ever knew."

Stoick turned to Einarr. "Do you remember Amena? How she talked with writing?"

The huntsman nodded slowly. "Yes. I do."

Turning to his counterpart, Stoick asked, "Toothless, would you please show these folks how you spoke to me that day?"

The Fury looked at the assembled Vikings and stepped forward. He slowly grasped his metal pencil, withdrew it from its pocket and held it up. Murmurs could be heard but were too low to identify a voice. He lowered the pencil and began drawing Berk, Red Death Island and the Red Death itself hovering over its home.

By the time Toothless was done with his demonstration the lines between those present had shifted noticeably. As he had expected the young dragon riders responded positively, though Snotlout seemed to be putting on a brave face in light of the news. Freygerd beamed, her hands held together before her and her eyes shifting constantly between the dragon and his work.

Mord, he noticed, was staring at the Fury as though reassessing everything he thought he knew about the creatures. Of the rest, Einarr seemed most perturbed. Spitelout, however, disappointed him. His brother said only, "Stoick." His voice was low and thick, tinged with alarm. He turned calmly to his second, staring at him resolutely. Spitelout's mouth worked a moment but the words he wanted escaped him. The younger man could only shake his head slightly, obviously disturbed by what he'd seen.

Einarr was more outspoken but just as unsettled. "Chief, you can't..." He hesitated as their leader turned his attention back to the huntsman. "This..." He pointed to the drawing. "This... trickery... you can't be serious. How can you trust such unnatural... they're dragons! They're probably in league with the foul beast!"

Hiccup piped up, interjecting, "No, they hate it! It's taken over their nest and they want it gone!"

Still keeping his eyes on Einarr, Stoick held up his hand to his son and was grateful when the young man settled down. He continued to hold his peace as Einarr spat back at Hiccup, "I don't care! You and your pet may have killed the last one but that don't mean this thing can bloody well talk!" He pointed once more at Toothless, his arm trembling in outrage.

"Yes they can!" Astrid's words were filled with a thinly disguised contempt. "Folkvardr already knows some Norse words and Toothless and I are teaching him more! If you spent any time getting to know them you'd see it for yourself!"

Stoick was a bit startled at the heat of the young woman's words but said nothing against them. He had expected tempers to flare on this subject. As long as no one started swinging steel to win their argument he would not intervene.

"I don't know," Ingifast mumbled. "It sounds crazy. It sounds like something your boy..." He didn't seem inclined to finish the statement.

Spitelout spoke again, still being quiet but just as intense as before. "I think what he's trying to say is it's too much to believe. We've never seen them act like anything other than animals. Dangerous animals at that. Tamable, maybe, but-"

"It sounds like you're going mad!" Einarr snapped.

"Hold yer tongue!" Spitelout may have had serious reservations but he would not tolerate disrespect of any kind aimed at Berk's leader.

"We've been fighting them for our whole lives! Why should we start acting like they're suddenly something different?"

"WE DIDN'T LISTEN!"

Stoick had to marvel at the volume Freygerd's small body could produce when she wanted. He also felt a shameful amount of relief that the thunderous expression on her face was not aimed at him. The village elder stepped closer to the master huntsman, gripping her staff tightly with both hands. Einarr seemed to have no better idea how to respond to her outburst than anyone else. He could only do his best to withstand her baleful glare.

Freygerd took a deep breath, keeping her eyes firmly on Einarr.

"Hiccup warned us about the first Red Death. We didn't listen. How many died?"

"Freygerd-" Einarr's attempt to placate her was ignored.

"HOW MANY?"

He shook his head slightly, his dismay at being unable to answer her question obvious in his tone. "I... I don't remember."

"I do." Her voice was low and rough, reflecting a mixture of anger and anguish for the lives they'd pointlessly thrown away. "I'll never forget how many we lost because we didn't listen."

Faced with the statements his chief had made and now the anger of the village elder, Einarr's conviction faltered. "This isn't right! They killed so many of us, destroyed so much. How can we ignore that?"

"They did, yes," Freygerd agreed quietly. "Until the Red Death was gone. Then they changed, didn't they?"

Frustration reddened Einarr's tanned face, lit his dark eyes. "We can't trust them, they're animals!"

The diminutive woman took a step forward, sweeping the carved end of her staff around until it pointed to the junior Haddock. "Hiccup told us, all of us, that the dragons weren't what we thought they were. He was right and he proved it." Her staff shifted until it pointed to the elder Haddock. "Hiccup told his father we couldn't win against the Red Death. He was right and _Stoick_ proved it." Winces and uncomfortable looks spread across most faces but the silence held. "Now Hiccup's come to us with new knowledge and tells us that dragons are people." Her staff moved once again until it pointed to the Night Fury. "And _Toothless_ proved it."

Einarr was losing ground but still not convinced. "He's just a boy! How can he know anything!"

To everyone's surprise, Freygerd's expression slowly became pained. She gradually settled her staff before her once more and seemed to lean on it for support. "He wasn't the first to see." She frowned but her eyes had dropped to where her hands clutched her aspen pole. "As a girl, a young woman, I saw some of these things as well." She shook her head minutely. "But I said nothing. I didn't dare risk speaking out against tradition, against belief." She raised her face to Einarr, her expression so intent he actually leaned back a bit. "But I knew I couldn't be the first to watch them, either! There had to be folk before me who saw the same! But none before me challenged our way of life." She frowned deeply. "Too stubborn, too cowardly." A pause let the crickets voice their opinion. "And so was I."

Stoick was amazed to hear such things come from the wise woman. He'd have argued against, even lashed out against such words from anyone else concerning Freygerd. To hear them come from her mouth...

Freygerd lifted her staff again, pointing it toward Hiccup. "Only he dared. Only he questioned, used his mind instead of his muscles." She pointedly ignored the muted cough Gobber used to cover a short chuckle. With her free hand she pointed to the newly made drawing in the dirt. "Now the proof is before you and the truth is out. Each of us must make a choice." With a surprisingly agile move for one her age she drove the end of her staff to the ground and spun halfway around. The long curved line left behind roughly separated her and the other Vikings from the dragons. She looked up at Einarr, making certain he was paying close attention. "Do we stay where we are, in ignorance? Or do we get closer, face the truth and save ourselves by embracing it?"

Everyone watched her in silence as she turned and marched directly to Toothless. The Fury lowered his head as she approached. Standing before him she ran aged fingers along his sleek jaw. She lowered her brow until it touched his nose and murmured to him. Then she straightened, turned and defiantly planted her staff before her.

"I've made my choice."

Stoick wasn't at all surprised when Hiccup was the first to move across Freygerd's line. He was a bit confused, however, when his son moved directly to his friend and spoke to him in soft yet urgent tones. The dragon grunted in reply, nodding once. Hiccup stepped away from him but stayed on his side of the 'dividing line.'

"These dragons are young," Hiccup said in his best approximation of Stoick's public address voice. "Their age protects them from the Red Death's control. They've already agreed to help us get rid of the new one. The first thing they will have to do is take us there." Stoick felt a surge of pride as Hiccup targeted Einarr just as Freygerd had. The young man met the huntsman's eyes and said, "Anyone who's a part of this is going to have to ride one of these dragons to get there. That means training and it means trust. Anyone who can't handle that will have to stay behind."

Stoick bit his lip, hard. He had no idea if Hiccup truly understood what he'd just done or if he'd issued his challenge without realizing it. But it made him want to roar with laughter to see the indignant shock on Einarr's face as first he was told by a young man that he had to measure up to the slim Haddock's standards, then watch incredulously as nearly everyone, including Mord and Gobber, calmly crossed over the line and approached the dragons. Spitelout hesitated, then squared his shoulders and crossed the line. Ingifast looked worried, yet even he followed Spite's example after a glance at Einarr. Stoick roughly thumped the master huntsman on the shoulder and nodded knowingly at him as he followed Gobber and Spitelout toward their new allies.

The chief smiled as he stood before the Night Fury and extended his hand. The black dragon raised his forepaw and clasped it with care. From the corner of his vision he saw his brother Spitelout gawp at the display while Freygerd gave a sharp "Ha!" of satisfied laughter. The young folks who already had dragon partners all approached their counterparts with varying degrees of reservation. Snotlout seemed the most uncertain while Astrid stroked Folkvardr's jowls and smiled broadly at him.

Stoick looked around in satisfaction at the gathering. The purple Nadder had approached Mord and the grizzled man was soon gratefully accepting Astrid's assistance in getting acquainted with the dragon that had chosen him. Hiccup stepped close to him, a tempered smile on his face. He expected his son still had reservations about the 'leader' comment. He glanced behind him, figuring Einarr had to have made up his mind by now. He was disturbed to see the huntsman staring at them as if they had all gone insane.

Freygerd noticed as well. She stepped past Stoick and beckoned to him. "Come along Einarr. Your pride can withstand getting help in the battle to come, I'm sure."

With her words came the attention of all those gathered. Vikings and dragons watched him as he raised a hand and gripped the handle of the sword he wore across his back. Stoick jerked and stepped forward, one hand on the handle of his dagger.

Everyone froze, Einarr's face a dreadful mask and Toothless' lips lifting in a silent snarl. With a slow steady move the huntsman unsheathed his weapon, handily switched his grip so the point was aimed at the ground and stabbed the blade into the dirt. He released it and took a step back.

"I'll not ride a dragon." His words were soft but full of determination; his eyes glittered in the sun's last rays of light. "I'll not trust one, ever. They're beasts, no matter what you say."

"You deny the evidence before your eyes?" Freygerd's gentle chiding had no effect.

"You would turn your back on Berk when it needs you most?" Stoick's accusation had a much harder edge.

Einarr raised an accusing finger toward the Fury. "I know what they are. They killed Kadlin. Burned her arm off. She bit her lip to bloody rags trying not to scream. For three... for three days she tried not to scream."

This was an argument that had helped perpetuate the war. Stoick knew this and tipped his head back, looking down at the shorter man. "They killed my wife. They killed my father, my mother. And they saved my son."

Rage burst from Einarr, too great to be contained. "A dragon's a dragon! They can't be trusted!"

"And a Viking with his eyes closed is no better than a child!" Stoick shot back.

Unable to convince anyone, the huntsman shook his head slightly. "You do what you want, all of you." He spat on the ground between them. "I'll have no part of it." With that he turned and walked toward the rock fall to leave the cove.

"This is still a conclave and you'll abide by it."

Einarr stopped a moment, looked at them over his shoulder with disgust. "I care nothing about your conclave. Keep your secrets. I still know the truth."

An unsettling lull held those who remained frozen for a time. As the huntsman climbed up and out of the cove it was once again Spitelout who broke the silence. "Should we keep an eye on him?"

Shifting between anger and disappointment with each breath, Stoick finally said, "No. He has enough honor to be trusted in this for now." He shook his head and glowered at the blade the man had left behind. "Though we will doubtless miss his skills. He's the best archer in the village."

Ingifast approached his chief with clear apprehension. "I'm with you, chief. I don't know about this 'people' business but I have eyes. But I'm an old man. I don't know what use I'll be clinging to a dragon's back in a battle against a Red Death."

Stoick clasped the shipwright's arm and smile warmly at him. "That's fine Ingifast. We haven't worked out any details yet. Perhaps you'll get to beat on its eyes with a hammer this time, eh?"

The older man stared at him as though that idea was just slightly crazier than offering the new Red Death a handful of mackerel and meadow grass. "I'll leave that to the younger warriors, thank you." He pointed vaguely in the direction of Snotlout, who was getting Asgeirr to light their bonfire to ward off the approaching shade of night.

As he gazed around in the blossoming of warm, rosy light Stoick saw that the younger folks who were already acclimated to being around dragons were trying to help their elders in meeting and socializing with their reptilian companions. The sight was disturbing at first glance, with the writhing shadows behind them all countered by the energetic dancing light of the large fire. It looked like some supernatural meeting of large and small horned monsters.

He heard the now familiar grumbling of the Night Fury off to one side mixed with the soft chittering of a Nadder. When he turned to look he saw Hiccup nodding first to his friend then to the bird-like dragon that had followed the Fury into the cove. Hiccup approached, looking somewhat uneasy. "Dad, you do realize, of course, that when I said we'd all be riding dragons to get to the island, that meant you too."

"Ehh, yes. Yes, I know." Truthfully he'd not let that thought take hold. He'd allowed himself to set it aside as a problem to deal with 'later.' 'Later', he realized, had finally become 'now.' "I, uhh, I just think we need to work on..."

Hiccup set his fists on his hips and shook his head. "No, dad. That's what this whole 'secret' meeting is about."

Stoick couldn't help but bristle.

"The only way this will work is if we work together as teams. Everyone who goes will ride a dragon they've trained with."

The image Hiccup unintentionally conjured for him left him somewhat startled. "By Odin. Anvindr was right."

"Huh?"

He shook his head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it had come. "Nothing." He focused again on his son and noticed the three of them were staring at him, but the tall, leggy Nadder was behaving a bit strange. Its wings were pulled close to its body, its legs crouching to keep it lower to the ground. It had one eye turned toward him but the great horned head was also tucked close in to the chest. This Nadder, he saw, was displaying signs seldom seen in a dragon and usually an injured one at that. It was very nervous.

"Dad," he heard Hiccup say, "There's someone Toothless would like you to meet."

For an instant he was confused by the 'someone'. Then the Fury rumbled to the Nadder, nosing it gently on the jowl. The Nadder, a female, raised her head slightly. She shuffled forward a few steps. The fading rays of the sun and the dancing light of the fire muted the colors of her hide but collected in her large, wary eye, a ghostly spark writhing within. She studied him as closely as he did her.

Stoick had never seen this day coming. Riding dragons, interacting with them, trusting one's life to them; these were things he watched his son do. He hadn't imagined himself in such a position and now that it was necessary for him to do so he found himself wanting to hesitate.

There was something else within him, though. Something he could not have foreseen. It had started with his use of the word 'allies' minutes ago. Berk had been on the brink not long ago. He'd seen his time of leadership become the period that would start an inevitable decline, one his village might not ultimately survive. Facing the Red Death on the shores of its island had convinced him he had foolishly exchanged a slow decline for immediate decimation. Living with tamed dragons afterward had given him hope for his village.

Facing the idea of another Red Death had, without him being aware of it, opened his mind to accepting help from any quarter. At first he'd thought the trading mission might be the solution, contacting other tribes to see if they would be allies or perhaps offer some other answer.

Facing the Night Fury in his own house, with a declaration made in ashes of support from their former enemies, had given him the resolution he'd desired: one brought about by Berk's own devices and strengths. Who could have seen those strengths as residing in the frail, clumsy boy born of the Haddock house?

This was their salvation. This was his moment to, as Freygerd had just declared, face the truth and save himself. He had a moment to wonder at it all, at the changes within his mind and heart. Then he moved toward her, his hand rising of its own accord. There was a strange tingle that lit along his skin as he laid his palm against the warm, pliant scales of her lower jaw. It was magnified by the rough, throaty purr that started at his touch. The feeling seemed to cascade, to race along his arm into his chest and set his heart alight. His breath hitched and he swallowed against a sudden dryness in his mouth.

He looked helplessly at his grinning son, at the pleased looking Fury. He cleared his throat, swallowed again. Meeting the nervous Nadder's eye he nodded and said quietly, "He-hello. My... my name is Stoick."

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2014

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN continued**

You were probably expecting more from the conclave. One of the main reasons they needed it was to figure out what to do about their new enemy, Smoketail. To be honest this chapter is already pretty long and I didn't want to wait any longer to post it. So the ideas that come from and get discussed during this secret meeting will come to light in coming chapters. I think this chapter has got enough dialogue as it is, no point in burdening it with more. So chapter 33 will be more action and planning than yakity yakking. Hooray!

I've also noticed that several stories I've followed have changed the wording to alter the name of Hiccup's mother from Valhallarama (as it is in the books) to Valka (used in the new movie). Personally, I like 'Valka' much better and am considering doing the same. But I don't know when I might get to it. Just so you know.

A special note to Anhedral: You will be hearing from me very soon. I haven't forgotten our 'little project.'


	33. Seeking the path

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Broken

Chapter 33: Seeking the path

Fear was for lesser Kin. As a Gatherer he was too large and too powerful to be threatened by those who owed their safety and strength to him. The largest of Kin gave others their true purpose. Lesser Kin would never see their full potential without a Gatherer to focus them, bring them together and build a nest worthy of them.

Smoketail could think of no clearer name for the squirming sensation in his guts. When he'd detected the scent of an outsider wafting down the rocky shaft of his nest, he'd only been interested in learning who the new Kin was and if an offering would be made. Upon detecting the lightest trace of a ghostwing's scent lingering in the upper cavern of his nest, he'd roared in anger and fear. Mostly anger.

The fear was real. His mind immediately filled with the image of the previous Gatherer's carcass, rotting on the beach below. Pebbletongue's last words came to him, making the fear grow. 'They will come for you!'

He'd stood there, all his eyes searching the upper cavern for signs of the ghostwing. His nose told him that elusive Kin was gone. His fear told him to find it and destroy it. But fear was for lesser Kin. He knew better than to leave his new nest so early. The nest would protect him, support him. That was its purpose. His was to strengthen the nest.

The ghostwing was a threat he couldn't ignore. It was also one he couldn't subdue. He could tell this ghostwing hadn't yet reached breeding age. It could not be safely enthralled for many seasons to come. Therefore it could not be tolerated.

There was another scent, teasing him, floating around the edges of his awareness. It was familiar yet different. It did not belong in the nest.

A preytooth.

Not Iceblood. That one had left with Crush Claw, taking its tempting blood and meat scent with it. The firescale had taken its preytooth away after it had been wounded, saying he needed to hunt for his bond partner. More likely he had wanted to remove the enticing odor of injured prey from the nest. Any Kin willing to give in to natural desires might consume it.

Whatever the reason, the two had gone. Smoketail had to decipher the evidence left by the intruders on his own. One was the ghostwing, the Kin responsible for the old Gatherer's death. The other was the preytooth to which it had bonded. Its scent was similar to Iceblood's but undeniably different. There was also an underlying tang to it, that prickly hint of unnaturalness that did not belong to any living prey. This he ascribed to the strange nature of preytooths.

There was more, he finally noticed. Deep breaths carried the proof to him. The scent of the ghostwing carried the same prickliness, alien and unnerving. Which was truly the source? Had the preytooth changed the Kin? Or were they becoming something else, some new and unknown threat?

Was it that similarity between the Kin and its preytooth that had grounded the old Gatherer?

Another deep breath sparked a memory and a thought. Smoketail had scented that prickliness before. It was the source of Iceblood's injury, the fight between it and a juvenile that had attacked him. They had both carried that scratchy scent, concentrated in the long silver claws with which they'd fought. So the prickly odor was a part of preytooths; their long sharp claws. Did the ghostwing carry the same scent through his close contact with a preytooth? Did it have anything to do with the grounding of the old one?

The ghostwing was a problem beyond Smoketail's reckoning. The lessons his dam had given him never touched on Kin who could somehow threaten a Gatherer. Nor had he ever been told such insignificant others could ground one of his kind. Only his own greed or foolishness could truly bring about his destruction. The health of Fire Nest told him the previous Gatherer had not laid too heavy a burden on those who claimed its skies. Therefore it must have been foolishness that led to her demise. Her size told him she'd been very old. Perhaps her mind had gone bad.

Even if that were true it didn't explain why the ghostwing had attacked her. Gatherers strengthened a nest, focused its activities for the benefit of all.

Was it the ghostwing's mind that had gone bad? Pebbletongue had not said so.

The question of the ghostwing vexed him. He once again wanted knowledge as much as he wanted food and could not sate the appetite. Pebbletongue was gone and Crush Claw had not yet returned.

That was why he now stood just beyond the opening at the top of his nest and called for that Kin. He bellowed the firescale's name out across the clear air of the nest and waited for an answer. This had been his routine for several days now. After getting comfortable in the red, steaming depths of his nest he would think about the ghostwing and receive offerings. A few times a day he would climb up to the top to call for the only Kin who would speak to him. Gatherers were patient in nature but this need riled him and twisted his thoughts.

Smoketail heard nothing but the low grumblings of those Kin watching their egg nests. His need would not be satisfied this day. He called one last time, his voice blasting out among the broken stones and crags at the top of the nest. Moments later he heard a distant reply, a tremulous squawk distorted by much distance. Far off a winged body rose, climbing over a distant ridge with labored strokes of its wings.

Its approach was not steady. Smoketail watched it cease flapping several times and drift slowly closer. Once it seemed to blunder into a mild downdraft, sinking many lengths before it worked its way free. Eventually it was close enough to tell that it was Crush Claw. The young Kin did not seem as energetic as usual. When he was close enough he called for permission to enter the Gatherer's nest, still frightened of displeasing Smoketail. A brief grunt of acknowledgment let the firescale drop gracelessly to the ground.

Even Smoketail could tell this Kin could not make an offering. He smelled of exhaustion and stress. Any food within his belly was needed and would be sorely missed if expelled. Curious, he leaned down and sniffed deeply of the firescale's flanks. Crush Claw froze, uncertain of the Gatherer's intentions.

He could detect the oils and salt of recent contact with the preytooth. Iceblood had ridden him a short time ago. There was none of the stimulating aroma of that creature's blood, though. Iceblood's wounds, it seemed, were healing.

"Where is it?"

A mild spike of fear touched the air. Smoketail's calm demeanor allowed it to fade but it didn't vanish.

"A small cave, away from the nests. For safety." The Gatherer found it amusing the firescale did not specify whose safety. "He's resting."

"Why has the ghostwing come?"

The bright rush of fear was intoxicating. Crush Claw's legs folded and his neck rubbed the floor. His wings trembled and he closed his eyes. Smoketail drank deeply of his sudden terror and decided to kill him instantly if he scented any deception.

"I saw no ghostwing," the firescale objected weakly.

"Its scent is on the stone upon which you stand. Why was it here?"

Crush Claw knew of his imminent death. That such a small kin could fill the air with so much fear smell was astounding. "I do not know."

That would not do.

"You know this Kin. You share the preytooth nest with him. You claim he wishes the hunts to go elsewhere, to leave the preytooths in peace."

Still the protruding eyes remained closed. "He is the watcher. He protects his nest."

More fear. Was this Kin made of nothing else?

"How does he protect his nest by coming here?"

Crush Claw hesitated. "I don't know." Underneath the fear, he found it. Deception.

With a furious roar that set the walls shivering and drew the eyes of all the nest-bound Kin outside, Smoketail raised his enormous paw and smashed it to the ground. As he struck, however, he remembered Pebbletongue and the loss of her knowledge. He shifted his strike slightly; just enough that Crush Claw's body was not struck directly. Shattering stone pelted him and caused him to squawk in panicked alarm. The runt rose up and drew back, using his wings to propel him away from the danger. Before he could escape, Smoketail struck again. His forefoot darted forward, shifting the claws of his paw to trap the firescale's nearest foot. Two of the little Kin's talons snapped off under the pressure and Crush Claw shrieked.

Jerking wildly the smaller Kin tried to pull its foot free, howling in pain. Smoketail thrust his head forward, jaws open. His great maw snapped shut with a tremendous crash on nothing. He saw the red and yellow body twisting desperately away from instant death.

Nothing moved. Crush Claw shuddered and whined. Smoketail glared and considered.

An idea slowly formed. It was as unnatural as the prickly scent of the preytooth's long claws. To deal with the ghostwing he needed to know what it wanted. He needed to know if it intended to attack. He would not leave. The firescale would leave. It would do what he needed; find the knowledge. He did not think it was a thing a Gatherer should consider. The dead one on the beach convinced him otherwise.

"You will go to the ghostwing. You will question his hunt. You will return and tell me."

The first hints of an injured Kin's scent touched his nostrils. It was close to his own scent and disturbing to him. But there was no deception to be found, only pain and fear. And blood.

"I will," Crush Claw moaned. His leg twitched. He was still trying to free his foot but also terrified of displeasing him. His tail writhed slowly in distress. The blood smell strengthened slightly.

Another idea came, gradually working its way through his mind. "You will also bring your preytooth here. To me."

The firescale stilled, not even daring to blink. Smoketail saw his idea was good.

"I will know the ghostwing's intent. Or I will know the taste of preytooth."

Crush Claw seemed to sag, closing his eyes and groaning quietly. He started to shiver. Smoketail pressed slightly on the trapped foot. A startled yelp filled the cave. "Yes! Yes!"

He lifted his claws slightly and the firescale rose up without hesitation, flapping desperately away from his tormentor. Dark fluid dripped from his shortened talons and spattered the ground.

Smoketail gradually eased himself back down to the heated depths of his nest. The knowledge that small Kin brought back would help him understand how to deal with the ghostwing. He would not end up in a shattered heap upon a lifeless beach.

Unnoticed by the Gatherer, those Kin tending their egg nests beyond the cave caught the scent of the injured firescale as it flew away. Their noses turned upward, tracking it with keen interest.

* * *

Knutr's home was huddled among the lines of wooden buildings near the cliffs of the docks. To one side was a storage shed filled with nets, baskets and ropes as well as extra sails for the ships far below. To the other side was Ulfr's house. Ulfr was a widower with one grown daughter and spent much of his time looking after his grandchildren. He was gone so there was no one to overhear their conversation.

Conversation had quickly given over to arguments, making Knutr even more grateful for his neighbor's absence. Kelda's enthusiasm was rising each week and Stonetoss' hesitation spurred her to greater insults each time they met. It was almost as if she were draining Stonetoss' will to fight whenever they came together to discuss 'the dragon problem.' How soon, he wondered, before the gossip would disassociate himself from their small group. More likely Kelda would run him off for not showing the appropriate level of concern.

Knutr caught himself fingering the stub of his left ear, a habit he'd tried to break many times. Kelda was a powerful woman; the strength of her opinions was only matched by her skills as a warrior. In her youth she'd been one of the most successful dragon fighters Berk had known. She'd also been one of the very few shield maidens in the village's history to set aside her warrior ways and take a husband. To no one's surprise she had essentially _taken_ her husband, setting her bride price herself and allowing Ramsbane little say in the matter. The paring had seemed promising at the time; an accomplished warrior matched with Berk's most successful sheep breeder could only enhance the village's security. Few had foreseen how thoroughly her personality would overshadow that of Ramsbane. Kelda had taken over as head of household, raised and trained three children and kept the family sheep pens producing hearty livestock. Now Ramsbane did little beyond breeding his sheep and agreeing with whatever his wife told him.

Lately she had become nearly insufferable. The pressures of regular dragon attacks had kept her aggressive nature in balance. To have the oversized reptiles walking peacefully among their houses was an insult to all she'd ever considered of value about herself and her skills. Knutr had recently heard her mutter quietly that she would go hunting for dragons by herself if Stoick didn't figure out the error of his new policies. Now she seemed to swing between ridding Berk of its few remaining domesticated dragons and returning to Red Death Island to destroy the whole of the species.

The more she invoked the need to attack the dragons, however, the more Stonetoss leaned away from direct action. More and more he worried about the lack of unity among Berk's population against their former enemy. Half a year of peace and the first real signs of a growing prosperity had given many a reason to let the dragons be. Anyone who openly voiced a desire to antagonize the huge pests was quickly reminded of the current state of affairs compared to how desperately bad things had gotten just before the change.

As such, Kelda's approach had moved toward changing the minds of Berk's citizens. Until recently her ideas had little traction to move forward. Then came the raid. She saw it as the perfect opportunity to rekindle Berk's hatred of dragons and was certain it justified a move on the undefended nest on Red Death Island. Still Stonetoss hesitated.

"The people aren't ready to go back to war," he complained. "They keep making excuses about it being spring time. Many think the dragons might be feeding their young. They think it might be over in a few weeks. I heard Grumblemud saying he'd heard Spitelout-"

"And what about poor Yrsa and Signy?" Kelda gestured with a particularly violent wave of her hand toward the northeast field. "They were nearly snatched away by the beasts! Should it matter whether they were nearly eaten by dragons or _baby_ dragons?"

"Yrsa and Signy aren't the problem," Knutr interjected wearily. "The people aren't the problem." He waited a moment for her to finish glowering at the gossip and turn her fierce expression toward her host. "Stoick's the problem."

He knew they didn't fully agree with him on this. He let them grind their teeth a moment, pausing to take a sip of his ale. "He's gone soft on the dragons. He's had to. His useless son killed the Red Death." He grinned, a wan and mirthless twisting of his lips. It made the scar on the side of his head pull taut. "His useless son rides a Night Fury." He raised his arms, questioning the world in general. "How can he be against the dragons when his son sits on that black devil?"

Oddly, Kelda's expression eased. She frowned slightly. "Hiccup's not a bad sort," she said quietly.

"But he's not the Viking sort, either." Knutr pointed with his mug at both of his guests. "He's still useless. And when Stoick's gone and he's chief, where will we be then, eh?"

Kelda had no answer for that.

"What should we do then?" Stonetoss fidgeted with his empty mug. "Wait a while and see if things change?"

Knutr grimaced. "You're a fine one for waiting, aren't you? Better to talk than to swing steel."

Stonetoss slammed his mug down, cracking its base. "Swing steel at what? Dragons that lay around like drunk yaks? Or dragons that sneak around and filch meat from the eaves of houses? Or dragons that only raid in twos and threes now?"

The shorter man's eyes narrowed and his smile soured. "Yes." He gave a breathy chuckle at the gossip's obvious confusion. "All of them."

There was a knock at the door.

Knutr thought it rather telling that both his guests looked concerned at the interruption.

"Who could that be," Stonetoss wanted to know.

"Didn't you say Gudrik might come," Kelda hissed.

"Idiots," Knutr muttered under his breath and went to the door.

* * *

Hogknee was wandering aimlessly. He hadn't intended to; it just happened. There was no place he could go without feeling uncomfortable.

He'd never been good at waiting and there was nothing else to do at his house. Svala understood and said nothing when he left. Normally he would go to the great hall and talk to friends or down to the docks and just sit in his boat. He didn't want any pity from his friends over his missing son and his boat was gone. At one point he found himself walking toward the small beach opposite Ingifast's boatyard where Jaspin often went with Bitequick. When he realized where he was going he faltered, stopped and just stood. Jaspin wouldn't be there.

Would he?

No. He'd been gone too long to return and head to the beach without explaining himself to his parents. There was no use in going to the beach. He eventually retraced his steps back toward the center of the village.

There was nowhere he could go that would help. Jaspin was gone, flown away to the island overrun by dragons. Something happened to him there and Stoick wouldn't let him go look. The chief said there was another Red Death living there.

No, actually it had been Hiccup who said that. And Stoick hadn't liked that, had he? Did that have any bearing on his missing son?

Only that he was forbidden from going there and looking himself. Bitequick was there, crushed to death. Hiccup said that, too.

Did Hiccup know something? Had he found more than a dead dragon in that immense lair?

Hogknee shook his head and began walking again. Hiccup was many unfortunate things but malicious and deceitful were not among them. His steps carried him through patches of thickening grass, fragrant with new life. Spring would soon become summer and the world's brief dance of renewal would bless Berk with another yearly bounty.

He'd have traded it all to know where Jaspin was.

His greatest hope was that Bitequick had abandoned him, overcome by her natural need to find a mate among so many other dragons. If there was truly another Red Death and it killed her, that didn't mean that Jaspin had shared the dragon's fate. His son was young but smart and tenacious. He was also loyal. That worried him more than anything. If it were in his ability to stay near his dragon while she surrendered to her nature, he might have been too close to that-

That mind-boggling colossus, rearing up as high as the great hall and large enough to set half of Berk ablaze with one devastating, fiery breath. He remembered the withering fear that had knifed him in the belly as it burst from its hidden tomb. Most everyone admitted they'd counted themselves Valhalla-bound the moment it made its appearance and bellowed like a vengeful god at the Vikings on its shore.

No one could stand against that.

Had Jaspin?

"Hogknee."

He raised his head, realizing he'd stopped again near a small path between two houses. Passing by the other end of that path was Einarr. He assumed the master huntsman had happened to catch sight of him standing motionless, caught up in his tormented thoughts. Einarr was an old friend of his and distantly related by marriage. Upon recognizing him he raised a lax hand.

Einarr hesitated, sympathetic distress on his handsome face. He said nothing for a moment, knowing any question he could ask was already anticipated and that Hogknee's distraction alone was all the answer anyone would need. He eventually raised his head slightly and asked, "How's Svala doing?"

"Best she can," the fisherman husked.

An uncomfortable silence settled in that odd space, between two small houses in the middle of Berk. Einarr didn't like it. He didn't like seeing his friend in such a state.

"I... I need..."

The anguish in the fisherman's voice decided him. With a glance at the two outer walls, he beckoned Hogknee to follow him. Too many gossip's stories had come from supposedly 'private' conversations held in such places where a stray ear within either home might hear the wrong thing. "Come, have a drink with me."

Hogknee shook his head. "I'm in no state for a crowd."

"Not the hall," Einarr clarified. "My home. Ingrid and Worm are at her mother's. We won't be bothered."

That at least drew a lighter tone and a half-smile from Hogknee. "You still call him Worm?"

Einarr grinned fiercely at his friend's reaction to his two year old son's persistent moniker. "I'll give him a proper name when he stops crawling in the dirt."

Sensing a chance for a much needed distraction, Hogknee agreed and they headed to Einarr's house. Once inside and relatively safe from curious busybodies, the huntsman handed the fisherman a wooden mug carved with a Monstrous Nightmare's sinuous head and neck for a handle. Within was some of the best ale the Ingerman family made. They drank in silence for a bit, Hogknee's eyes drawn to the small fire burning low in the hearth. With his last frustrated words between the houses in mind, Einarr asked his friend, "What do you need?"

Hogknee's head came up, his features suddenly strained. He drew a great breath as if he intended to shout something. A moment later he let it out slowly, as though any request he might have made had already been denied.

"Speak," Einarr insisted. "Do not fear laying your burdens on me." He deliberately grinned at him despite the mood. "I have broad shoulders to carry any load."

A matching grin almost, _almost_ made it to Hogknee's lips. His eyes stayed dark and his thin frame tensed. He seemed to expect confrontation. Einarr was trying to decide if he should prod further when Hogknee spoke.

"I need to get to Red Death Island."

It took Einarr by surprise. He could make no sense of it. When he thought back on what had happened to the Vapnfjord family recently he got an inkling that the request was somehow connected to Jaspin's disappearance. Getting no further in his thoughts, he could only ask, "Why?"

"That's where he is." A subdued anger could be seen now, twisting his mouth and drawing his brows down.

While Hogknee's answer did explain why he would want to go to that lifeless pile of dragon-infested rocks, it didn't tell him enough. There was plainly more to it. He leaned forward, inviting the confidence of his old friend. "What's happened?

After only a moment's hesitation, Hogknee quickly related Stoick's visit and Hiccup's revelation. Bitequick's death bothered Einarr only because he knew the Nadder had taken strongly to the boy and had provided a goodly amount of protection. Unfortunately it hadn't been enough. Against a Red Death, nothing was enough.

Nothing but Stoick's son and his singular mount.

It surprised him that Hogknee had been aware of the monster's presence but only until he realized that Hiccup's chaotic nature had played its role once more. So now Hogknee was desperate to get to that miserable place to search for his missing son and the chief wouldn't allow it. Objectively, Einarr could understand Stoick's decision. With the new behemoth in residence, the place was entirely unsafe. But that just made the need to mount a search all the more critical. Stoick may have been balancing the welfare of the entire village against that of one lost boy, but that boy was his friend's son. And he would not stand by and let Jaspin's chance of rescue slip further away with each passing day. He would act.

In fact, knowing what he did made it seem as if it were destined by the gods. Einarr knew of the great beast's weakness. He understood his chance of slaying such a creature by himself or with a chosen few was practically nonexistent. But there were things he knew from his dragon fighting days that would make their passage safer. There was even a new method he'd been itching to try, one brought about by Hiccup's desperate fight against the old Red Death. Yes, he'd be bringing a few fire arrows when they went looking for Jaspin.

Such ideas were premature. He had to catch his deer before he could skin it.

"We need to speak to Eyvind. He's just brought Tonna back this morning from fishing the Snapspines." He thought a moment. "First, though, I think we should visit Stonetoss. That fool's flapping lips might finally be useful."

* * *

"What do you want?"

Knutr's voice tried to discourage his visitors as much as his thickset body blocking the doorway. Einarr looked down at the man and smiled condescendingly.

"Ah, there you are. Seeing as I haven't been able to find Stonetoss or Kelda they must be in there with you. Mind if we step in for a word?" He tipped his head slightly to indicate Hogknee standing off to one side.

Knutr's eyes narrowed. He'd never liked Einarr and felt the huntsman was far too arrogant for his own good. "Why?"

His patience ran out quickly and his false smile vanished with it. "Because," he answered in soft tones that held more than a hint of disdain. "You and your little sewing circle can help this man find his lost son."

The stout man's antagonism diminished, leaving him to turn to his guests who sat out of sight. He questioned them with a look. Seconds later he turned his gaze back to Hogknee, the slightest trace of pity in his expression. He stepped back from the door and pushed it the rest of the way open.

It was an uneasy gathering. Einarr nodded perfunctorily to Stonetoss and Kelda before sitting on an upturned barrel. The annoyed look he got from Knutr told him he had just taken the man's seat. He smiled at the room in general with a bit more sincerity, mildly amused at annoying his obnoxious host. Hogknee stepped in after and only stood, looking at them all as if wondering why he was there. He and Stonetoss shared an uneasy glance before they both studiously ignored each other. Knutr closed the door behind him.

"So," Einarr said briskly, his smile brightening in a most patronizing way. "Have you lot figured out how to right the wrongs of the world by complaining about them to each other?"

Kelda sputtered and Stonetoss glowered but Knutr stepped in before things could get out of hand. "You said we could help find Jaspin. Explain yourself."

Einarr paused several seconds before he answered, still smiling with infuriating calm. "We know where he is. We just need volunteers to go get him."

Silence filled the house as confusion kept the three gossips from speaking momentarily. Stonetoss glanced briefly at Hogknee, who was watching Einarr with a vaguely perturbed expression. "Why come to us? Why not tell Stoick? He'd send out a rescue party, probably lead it, too."

The huntsman shifted only his eyes to meet Stonetoss'. "Oh, Stoick already knows where he is."

"Then why hasn't he been brought back?" Kelda's indignation flared readily.

"Because he's forbade anyone from going."

Silence again, quickly dispelled with outraged shouts.

"How could he do such a thing?!"

"What's he thinking?!"

"This is unacceptable!"

It took a minute for the ruckus to settle enough for Knutr's suddenly cautious question to be heard.

"Where is he?"

Einarr's smile actually widened. "On Red Death Island."

That took the wind right out of their sails. Kelda gaped a moment before she scoffed and demanded to know, "What was the little fool doing out there?"

Hogknee frowned but said nothing. Einarr gladly provided the answer. "Getting himself in trouble, obviously." Stonetoss muttered something too soft to hear while staring at his balled fists pressed against his knees. Hogknee glared at him but still said nothing.

"So we'd need a ship and some supplies," Knutr stated, showing his firm grasp of the obvious.

"Wait, you're kidding, right?" Stonetoss looked around at the others. "You want to head back into the nest? The five of us against all those dragons to look for one boy?"

Hogknee glared at him, his hand moving slowly toward the dagger on his belt.

"Wait a minute," Kelda interrupted. "Something's off here." She pointed a finger at Einarr. "Jaspin rides a Nadder. He'd have to fly it out there to get to that place. If he hasn't come back, how do you know that's where he went? And if he rode his dragon out there, why hasn't he ridden it back?"

Hogknee broke in, loudly demanding, "Does it matter? We know where he is, we just need to go get him!"

Kelda's expression softened. She understood the strength of a parent's desire to protect their children. "I agree; we need to go get him. But this doesn't make sense. Stone's not the sharpest axe on the wall but he's right about the five of us going against a whole nest of dragons. It's obvious something else is going on."

Einarr could sympathize with both sides. Hogknee didn't want to reveal the new Red Death's presence on the island for fear of losing any chance at getting help. But there was no way they could properly plan Jaspin's rescue without taking it into account. Kelda was right about needing to know the whole story. When Hogknee couldn't bring himself to explain, he spoke up.

"Jaspin lost his dragon. That's why he hasn't flown back home."

Kelda turned to him, a frown marking her already disagreeable features. "And how do _you_ know that?"

"Because Hiccup's already been searching for Jaspin. All he found was the boy's dead Nadder at the top of the nest. It had been killed by something much larger than it." Einarr shrugged slightly. "I believe the words he used were, 'crushed to death.' Right Hogknee?"

The fisherman's eyes were downcast and his voice greatly subdued. "Aye."

"Crushed?" The rumbling word from Knutr expressed disbelief but also hinted at nervousness.

Einarr shifted his gaze to his host. "Mmm. And what could be on that island that could crush a Nadder?" He paused as the large man's brows drew down in growing concern. "What could drive the dragons to begin raiding us once again for food?"

"No!" Surprisingly it was Stonetoss who objected, loudly. "That demon spawn is dead! We all saw it!"

With exaggerated patience and a condescending tone Einarr did his best to kill all their doubts. "It was no demon. It was a dragon. Flesh and bone and as mortal as you and I." He met eyes with the others in the room, one at a time. "And yes, it's still dead. But where there was one, there can be another. Nothing living can exist alone in this world."

Even Einarr had to stop for a moment and consider the full meaning of that statement. How many of those raging behemoths could there be in Midgard? Were they destined to always suffer their existence? What did that mean for those who wanted to live in peace with the other dragons? Was that even possible?

The memory of the battle with the last one-

No. The _first_ one.

That memory rose up in each mind, the unfamiliar sensation of helplessness against something so huge and so destructive that even the mightiest Viking warrior had to pause and call upon the gods for help. The death of the first one had settled in their minds as proof that the warriors of Berk could do the impossible. With the aid of one very specialized weapon, of course. But no one denied the courage it took for them to all face that living nightmare on the stony beach of its nest.

Conveniently forgetting, naturally, that most of them hadn't even attempted to strike a blow once the catapults had been demolished and the fleet incinerated. At that point they'd mostly been running, but no one seemed keen on remembering that part.

Stonetoss looked around at the small gathering. "What are we going to do? Are we going to go back to fight that..." He trailed off and then suddenly turned to Einarr. "Does Stoick know?"

"Of course Stoick knows!" Einarr scoffed. He turned back to Hogknee, sympathy lightening his tone. "That's why he's not planning to look for Jaspin. He's planning an attack on the new Red Death, right this minute." He nodded to the fisherman. "And he doesn't want anyone going there and stirring up the nest before hand."

Stonetoss managed a quiet, "But-" before Einarr cut him off.

"That's why we must go and look for Jaspin, now. Before the nest gets stirred up." He stood, glancing at each of them once more. "We're the boy's best chance at getting home." Each of the others eyed Hogknee, weighing everything that had been said. "I'm certain I can convince Eyvind to bring us there in Tonna."

Kelda was scowling fiercely, clearly unhappy about his plan. "Now wait a minute. I've no fear of fighting dragons and I want to get Jaspin off that cursed rock as much as any of you. But you're saying there's another _Red Death_ living there?"

Einarr's strained patience was evident in his voice. "Yes."

The head of the Ornolf family stared at him a moment. "And you think the five of us should just go there and start traipsing around to look for one lost boy?"

"So you _were_ paying attention."

Anger simmered in her eyes. "Are you daft!?"

Stonetoss and Knutr sat quietly, watching the two of them argue, not wanting to interfere between Einarr's worthy goal and Kelda's reasonable objections. The huntsman's voice lowered dangerously. "I think not."

Kelda's restraint broke and Knutr was once again grateful for his neighbor's absence. She stood suddenly, her fists balled up and her arms actually quivering. "HAVE YE ALREADY FORGOTTEN THE BATTLE!?"

A strange calm seemed to come over Einarr. His own anger ebbed, as if washed away by the woman's greater rage. He stared silently at her for several moments, his face passive.

"Have I forgotten the sight of all Berk's warriors, ready for battle and eager to fight? The hole we punched into the mountain? The ...unbelievable beast we unleashed upon ourselves with our catapults and our war cries?" He smiled thinly and with much scorn. "Yes, I completely forgot all that."

Kelda seethed. Hogknee looked distraught as he realized the simple desire of finding his son alive on that island was far more difficult than he'd allowed himself to hope.

"I forgot all that because it has nothing to do with our purpose. We are not going there to hunt the Red Death. We are not going to hunt dragons. We are going to search for a boy. Quietly. Sneakily. Carefully."

By no means mollified, Kelda snarled, "You really think we can get away with-"

"I think the dragons are busy doing the same thing as the seagulls and the wild yaks. I think that if we stay away from them and their nests while we're there they will give us no trouble."

She glanced at Hogknee, seeing his muted distress at the scenes they were all imagining. "A slim hope, you ask me. If you're wrong, we'll be up to our noses in dragons protecting young _and_ another Red Death."

Einarr frowned distastefully. "Have _you_ forgotten scores of dragons laying on rooftops like cats? Begging for fish in the gathering circle? Taking advantage of the peace and acting like pets?" He looked around at his group once more. "I think we have less to fear from the dragons than you think, as long as we don't threaten them."

The lead gossip practically whispered, "What about Stoick?"

"We'll head south, saying we're fishing. Out of sight of Berk, we turn west."

No more objections were voiced but no one looked terribly enthusiastic either.

"We need to leave as soon as we can. Tomorrow morning would be best." Hogknee nodded slightly. The others seemed to be lest certain. "It will take several days to get there, days Jaspin may not have. The longer we wait, the more likely Stoick will get there first."

Kelda sounded more resigned than confident, but she finally conceded with a quiet "Aye." That prompted Knutr to follow her example. He turned to Stonetoss. The gossip nodded but when he added his voice to the others it sounded more of desperate determination. Einarr clapped a grateful looking Hogknee on the shoulder.

"Since we're going 'fishing' we need to sneak our weapons aboard with our provisions. No point in raising suspicions needlessly."

Hogknee looked at him, concern plain on his face. "You said this isn't a hunt. We're looking for my boy."

Einarr did his best to sound reasonable. "In a nest full of dragons. Would you really suggest we go unarmed?"

After a moment's thought, the fisherman shook his head.

"Then it's settled. We'll meet on the docks at daybreak. I'll go talk to Eyvind right now."

Einarr headed down the many flights of stairs along the cliff. He would have to finish his errand quickly. He had his own preparations to make and some special supplies to locate. He smiled grimly to himself. He would finally have what he'd wanted since he was a child, what he'd wanted more than anything since losing Kadlin: a chance to hunt dragons at their source.

As he reached the lowest level of the docks he spied Berk's newest ship, the 'Night Fury.' He grimaced at the poor choice of a name. Why should they honor such a destructive beast?

His steps faltered. The memory of the previous night's conclave came to him. He'd seen things he'd never figured on seeing, things he didn't want to consider. It made no sense. How could Stoick have sunk so low, changed so much?

Those bizarre, honorless tricks the chief had resorted to; it had baffled and enraged him. Wasn't it enough to know they'd battled for generations against beasts they could have domesticated, suffered for their lack of knowledge? Why pretend they were something more? Why not invite the yaks to the great hall for a game of knucklebones?

He shook his head. Hiccup and that bloody black devil. That had to be the root of it.

If Stoick had allowed that poisonous influence to invade his house, that was the chief's problem. His was finding Jaspin and avenging Kadlin. He would do nothing to jeopardize the former but he would have the latter if he could manage it. As a master huntsman he knew not every hunt would go as planned. Kelda was right to be concerned about this venture but he truly believed they could succeed, if they did as he said and did nothing to disturb the dragons.

At least not until they found Jaspin. Afterwards… oh yes, afterwards there would be a reckoning. And if the gods smiled upon him and his ideas, he might find himself taking a trophy that even Hiccup the useless couldn't claim: an enormous monster brought down through cunning and ruthlessness. The way all Viking victories should be.

He caught sight of Eyvind and waved.

* * *

The bright, warm sunshine that chased away the night's gloomy shadows wasn't enough. The happy songs of birds celebrating the clear, bracing weather weren't enough. Not even the heavy huffing breaths of a furnace drawing heat from its first meal of coals managed to wake Hiccup. It wasn't until the first stroke of Gobber's heavy shaping hammer rang in his ears that the young man jerked awake, a thin line of drool briefly connecting his lower lip with his most recent sketches.

"Whazza?" As if being rudely awoken weren't enough, his neck immediately complained of the awful stress Hiccup had put on it by falling asleep at his work table. He tried to straighten; his back added its vote to the 'sleeping slouched onto a wooden table is a terrible idea' ballot.

"Owwwww." He braced his hands against the work surface and arched backwards as much as he could. Several heavily marked sheets of parchment slipped to the floor. "Ugh. Wha time..." He glanced at the doorway to his small work room and got an eyeful of late spring light. With a pained grunt he covered his eyes and rested his elbows on the table a moment.

He hated mornings like this.

Gobber's hammer was vigorously working something that sounded long and thin but not heavy enough to be a weapon. Hiccup knew the sound of most metal objects when they were being shaped. This sounded more like a long metal band of some kind. His mind skittered off to his mental list of items made in the forge that would be a match for what he was hearing. Unfortunately it didn't seem interested in returning. Hiccup sat and stared at nothing in particular for several long moments.

"Are ye coming out or do I have to come in and get ye?"

Hiccup shook loose of his mindless lethargy and stood carefully. He put weight on his left leg slowly. Having had his iron and oak leg strapped on all night was another mark against him and his stump would certainly not appreciate being pressed into service so quickly. There was a bit of the usual numbness from the tip of the abbreviated leg as well as the tingly flickers of pain deep in the bone. His remaining calf muscles resisted waking up as much as he did and started to twitch. He could feel a cramp coming on and started rubbing the flesh beneath the leather straps to ward it off.

"Hiccup?"

"Out in a minute, ok?"

The clanging resumed. He eyed the sheets that remained on his work table, noting the many incomplete ideas that had come to him late the previous night. A level headed review of what he'd scribbled out in his exhaustion would most likely see the majority of the sheets scraped clean for reuse. He seldom had workable ideas when he tried to brainstorm so late at night.

Ignoring his notes he pushed his way out into the smithy.

Hoops. Of course; he should have known. In fact he now remembered seeing his hefty friend approaching the smith before they all left the cove the previous night. Fishlegs had asked Gobber if the barrel hoops his father had requested would be ready soon. The Ingermans might not trust the man to make their barrels for them but they had no choice but to get their barrel hoops from him. Hiccup stopped and watched him working one into a nearly perfect circle, his mind slipping back toward the quiet, dark place it had just left.

Hiccup blinked when a thick, sooty finger pressed under his jaw to lift his head. Gobber's bemused expression filled his vision.

"Fell asleep on your work table again, didn't ye?"

Hiccup rubbed his cheek, feeling the rough texture left by the unfinished wood on his flesh. "Of course not," he said petulantly. "I just like to have a nice oak table finish to my cheeks first thing in the morning."

Gobber only shook his head at his apprentice's strange humor. "Make any progress?"

With a grimace, the young man responded, "Yeah. I discovered that trying to design new weapons after midnight is a waste of my time." He rubbed his cheek, the slightly red imprint of knotty oak still visible. "It's also bad for my face."

After he finished rounding the hoop, Gobber set it aside and pointed to a corner of the shop. "I rummaged around in my wood pile and found a few suitable shafts this morning."

After their conclave was finished, Hiccup and his father had stayed behind with Gobber and Mord to consider how to take advantage of the Red Death's hidden weakness. Despite Gobber's earlier objections that a spear would be ineffective against a dragon's scales, they'd come up with an idea for a modified spear that might work. Hiccup had promised to try and think of some other idea on his own, in case the spear idea didn't work out.

The 'shafts' Gobber had chosen were actually old tent poles. All three were oak and easily as thick as Hiccup's forearm. They were also longer than he was tall. He picked the shortest one up, grunting slightly at the effort. "You gotta be... Gobber, if you put that triple edged point you were talking about on this thing and a counterweight on the other end, how much is it going to weigh?"

The smith shrugged with a slight grin. "Not so much that a brawny warrior like me couldn't chuck it a good distance."

Hiccup gave him a flat look. "At a small moving target? That's almost certainly going to be trying to set you on fire?"

His concerns were dismissed with a casual wave of a heavily calloused hand. "Eh, so the brute will have a sporting chance. Makes for a good challenge."

The young man frowned worriedly. "Gobber..."

His mentor sighed. "It'll be fine, Hiccup. We still have some time to work out the kinks."

Hiccup nodded uneasily. Something about planning an attack on another Red Death was far more unsettling than just jumping on Toothless' back and fighting it 'on the fly.' There was time to think about all that could go wrong. So horribly, catastrophically wrong.

"What will you use for the counterweight?"

Gobber pointed to the hoop he'd just set down. "Hoop bands. Spiral wrap one or two along the butt end until you get a good balance."

His apprentice's eyes lit up. "Wow. Yeah, good idea. It should distribute the weight evenly along the shaft."

"Mmm." Gobber stepped forward and took the shaft from Hiccup's hands. He hefted it slightly. "I still think it's a bad idea, honestly. A sword in a warrior's hands is the only thing I've ever seen that's guaranteed to get through scales." He raised the shaft, as though it were a finished spear he was about to hurl. "Making this heavier might help, but the heavier it is the closer you need to be for a good strike." He set the shaft down with an uncertain scowl. "I wouldn't want to be the one dancing on that beastie's head trying to poke this in its eye."

It was Hiccup's turn to shrug carelessly. "So make a really big bow to shoot it."

Gobber gave him an annoyed look. "If that's all the help you're going to be you might as well go get you some breakfast."

"What? Are you saying you couldn't make a bow big enough to launch a spear?" The laughter in his voice seemed to irritate his mentor. "I'm sure the average beefy Viking could handle it with no... problems."

Hiccup got an all-too familiar look in his eyes. "Oh," he said quietly. "What if we made... no, there's no way." He shook his head vehemently. "No one could actually..." His head snapped up. "OH!"

Gobber flinched. He'd seen that wild look in Hiccup's eyes before. Houses had been damaged and livestock scattered to the farthest fields as a result.

Hiccup was desperately hunting for something with which to draw and muttering. "If we used the three bladed point idea... yeah, that could work. And it would- no, wait, wait. You'd never find-" He ducked into his small work space and returned a moment later with parchment and charcoal. "Maybe you really could make it bigger and get away with it. It could- no! No, no, no, you have to account for fletchings. There's no way... unless..."

"What are you on about, boy?"

"Ugh, maybe if you reinforce the limbs with metal, like your counterweight. But it would have to be really springy..."

Gobber rolled his eyes. "Hiccup."

The boy bent over his parchment, scribbling like mad. "Springy is hard. But still it's better than having it break-" He went silent a moment before he jerked up, his expression exultant. "Of course!" he crowed. "Why didn't I..." He lost his momentum almost immediately. "But you still have to worry about the shaft bending. How..."

The older man wanted to smack the kid on the head when he got like this. "Hiccup!"

Vivid green eyes snapped to his, full of life and sparking with ideas. Including one that seemed to be really important. "Of course! My knife!" Parchment and charcoal were carelessly abandoned as he took off at a fast limp toward his house.

Gobber watched him go, a bit disconcerted at his apprentice's stranger-than-usual behavior. He shook his head and muttered, "If I didn't know better I'd say he'd eaten some bad scallops or something."

* * *

The waters off the beach were barely warmer than when the ice had covered it, despite it being well into the season of green. Two Hearts had thrashed around in the briskly cool waves, ridding himself of the dust of several days. He had asked Featherstone to remove his dead tail fin and all the bleater skins that held it together. Now, unable to fly but free to bathe, he stood just off the shore with only his head above water. The claws of his forepaws were sunk into the loose rocks of the submerged shore. The ground dropped away sharply beneath him so his hind claws could not reach the ground. He was very slowly doing his water-wing exercises, gently stirring the water at his sides as he stared at the shore.

Before him sat Yellowbreath. The stonebelly, like all her kind, did not enter the water. The bodies of those Kin were too dense and could not float as his did. For her, to enter water deeper than her chest was to invite drowning. They stared at each other, the silence kept away by the endless flock of waves that crept to the shore.

The gathering of Kin and preytooths the night before had been largely successful. The squishy yet dangerous preytooths had begun discussing how to attack the Gatherer. They seemed quite energetic about it. Two Hearts hadn't the liver to tell them they had no chance of carrying out their plans if their scaled companions couldn't figure out a way to drive off the nest. He and Yellowbreath had taken it upon themselves to try working something out.

As familiar as the two of them were with their bond partners and the preytooth nest, they didn't have enough knowledge of their full strengths and weaknesses. They had passed a few ideas back and forth earlier that morning but none had any lift. Now the sun was well into its journey and they had accomplished nothing but silent thought. Two Hearts did not count himself as good with ideas as Yellowbreath but he had been around the preytooth nest longer and knew some things about them that she probably did not.

It had not helped. None of his ideas had enough lift without knowing what the preytooths could actually do against a Gatherer. Their last fight against one had been entirely one-sided. In their defense, they hadn't known how to prepare for such a fight. But now that they did know to prepare, they didn't seem any more encouraged.

"Two Hearts, I am deeply troubled by this. I see no clear ending."

His heart thumped a little harder within him. "We must still try."

"Yes," she agreed. "We must. But I cannot see the end of this. If preytooths and Kin come together and ground the new Gatherer, will that be the end of it?"

He gave a short, confused grunt. "Of course it will. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Did you ever believe we would see the Great Eel grounded? Before you met Featherstone, could you see a day when Fire Nest would be free?"

The ghostwing didn't like thinking on those days. They no longer felt like good days now, despite how he viewed them at the time. "No." His voice was as cool as his liver.

"You bonded with a preytooth. Could you see that day ahead of you?"

"My path has been... different from most."

"When you grounded the old Gatherer, did you see another coming to take its place?" Her words were stronger, more urgent.

"No."

"And if we ground Smoketail, do you see yet another Gatherer coming to take his place?"

The cold of the water seemed to seep into his bones and touch his liver with hard frost. "What do you mean?"

"One Gatherer gone, another takes its place. If this one is grounded, will there be another? Is Fire Nest ever going to be truly free? What if this is the way it is meant to be and we are only trying to fly through a never ending storm?"

Without thinking Two Hearts drove his head below the water and pressed his snout hard to the cold rocks below him. The near silence of the water surrounding him focused his mind on the horrible, biting idea. Gatherers forever? Was there a line of them making their way to his old nest like waves on the ocean? Were they fighting a foolish fight? Could that be the way of things?

Words and visions flashed across his mind. Scenes and conversations from his first days to that morning flickered like sparks from burning trees. It rushed and rolled and roared at him. It battered at him for a time he could not define. Then certain ideas came up and rose like smoke, covering the lesser, distracting thoughts.

His sire's story was one. His own was another. And Featherstone's influence bound it together. He thrust his head above the water and loudly growled, "NO!"

Yellowbreath's eyes widened slightly.

"There was a time before the Great Eel. Fire Nest was free. Then that Gatherer came and the breeders were enthralled. That time is over. There was a time before I knew Featherstone. We flew rough airs and are now bonded, strong. That time will never end before we end. This is how it must be. What is good we protect. What is bad we ground. The shape doesn't matter. Smoketail is a Gatherer and we cannot allow him to enthrall the breeders. What comes after will come after."

The stonebelly thought on this for a long time. Finally she quietly said, "I have another idea. But its worth will depend entirely on how the preytooths intend to attack, what weaknesses they need protected and what strengths they need enhanced."

Two Hearts lifted his head slightly to raise his lower jaw out of the water. "They have said sharp metal in their foreclaws is the only way to strike Kin with surety. But their thrown weapons are often effective."

"Not against Kin the size of Smoketail."

The ghostwing paused. "No." He gave his wings a hard stroke against the water, raising his body slightly in process. "I fear they may have to swarm it with their sharp metal. But with the few they intend to bring and the nest to protect it, I see no chance of survival."

"My idea may keep the nest at bay. For a time, at least."

Two Hearts pulled himself a little closer to the shore, water draining off his back. "How?"

Yellowbreath did not answer for several heartbeats. She scented of distress. "The Gatherer stays mostly in the depths of Fire Nest. There are now two entrances to it. The long drop from the top and the new hole the Great Eel made." Her distress grew. "I think we can block the breeders from entering through those two places."

"Block them?"

"Yes. If the preytooths can find a way to fight the Gatherer and ground it, we may be able to prevent the nest from coming to his aid."

He suspected he knew her idea already. "There will be as few unbred Kin as there will be preytooths. We cannot fight them all when they learn he is in danger."

"They will not know. If they do not know, they will not come."

He was greatly confused. "How will they not know?"

"We will use his strength against him. We will block Fire Nest from catching his scent or sound."

"Block it with what?"

Once again her distress grew. She seemed to greatly dislike her idea."

"Injured Kin."

Her words had no lift. They lay before him like dead roundbacks.

"I-" He felt lost, like he was flying in a starless night sky. "Your words are twisting in my head. I cannot..." He tried his best to grip her idea in his teeth and bear down. "If there are injured Kin blocking the way... how... where do these injured Kin come from?"

Yellowbreath's growling voice became subdued, pained. "We will be those injured Kin."

* * *

(c)Wirewolf 2014

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

**AN: **I'm not entirely thrilled with this chapter. Usually I have the chapter title long before I finish writing it, sometimes even before I start. This time I spent an hour after completing it trying to figure out what it should be called. And I'm still not happy with the title I gave it. I believe this is because I didn't have a unifying theme in mind before I started it.

At any rate, I have my yearly trip to visit family for the holidays coming up soon, then I will be working on a small personal project. Afterwards I will begin chapter 34. And no, I don't know what I'm going to call it either.


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